


No Ordinary Love

by FikFreak



Category: Richonne - Fandom, The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - The Walking Dead Fusion, Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fanfiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 19:10:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 114,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15936533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FikFreak/pseuds/FikFreak
Summary: Michonne Anderson and Rick Grimes are the best of friends. As next door neighbors growing up they have weathered fights, younger brothers, and adolescence, with their bond growing stronger everyday. But what happens to that friendship when friendly love turns to lust and romance? Will their friendship fall apart under the complications of sex, outside forces, and dreams deferred?





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – Michonne

"Thanks for coming, Rick."

"No problem."

Reaching my arm out to turn down the radio so he can hear me, I raise my voice a little. "Really. I mean… I know you probably had something to do with Lori or whatever."

"Nah, it's cool. She didn't come home with me. We're actually taking a break right now. She wanted to do spring break in Cabo, and I didn't."

"Oh? Why not? Cabo sounds fun. I wish my parents would have let me go to Cabo for spring break. Instead I have to go on this family trip to Europe. Who goes on a family trip for spring break when they are 18?"

"I would rather go there than to Cabo."

"What? Oh my god, you are such an old man already! You need to loosen up, Rick."

"I'm loose." Rolling his shoulders to supposedly evidence how easy going he is, Rick looks over at me and grins, "See?"

Frowning at his stiff movements, I lean away from him and burst into a fit of laughter. "What is that? What are you doing?"

"Showing you how loose I am?"

Laughing at his pitiful attempt at appearing relaxed, I shake my head back and forth with my dreads whipping in front of my face. "Nope. No."

"Too lose?"

"Uh, no."

"Not loose enough?" He asks with a slight grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. Schooling the mirth showing on his features, Rick shrugs. Relaxing his broad shoulders, and focusing on the road, he leans back into his seat again. Tapping his right hand against the steering wheel as though he gives up on the subject, he sighs and pulls his baseball cap lower on his head, down over his eyes. "Oh well. I guess you and Lori agree on that then."

I'm no fan of Lori's. Not even a little bit. Her and Rick have dated off and on since he left Atlanta for The University of Tennessee four years ago. The way Rick tells it they kind of stumbled into a relationship by accident, meeting up at a frat party when some drunk, obnoxious some guy was hassling her and spilled a drink all over her clothes. Rick, being his usual chivalrous self, de-escalated the situation and offered to walk her back to her dorm. After that she just kind of stuck with him. Asking him to walk her to her classes. Showing up at parties he was going to be at. Rick calls it the relationship that's not a relationship, but I told him after his sophomore year of her skillfully attaching herself to his hip that if it looks like a relationship, and you never call the police on your stalker, then it's a relationship. He never thought that was as funny as I did, but he never disagrees, and I think after four years he has just quietly relented to whatever the thing is between them.

If I could find something nice to say about Lori it would be that she's not bad looking if you like that skinny, waifish look. And she's tenacious. Good lord the woman is tenacious! Singularly focused on Rick, she has easily waltzed her way into a four year, monogamous relationship without breaking a sweat. She sure knew how to pick her prey. Rick is simply too easygoing to cause a fuss, or to call a spade a spade when it comes to his level five clinger. Especially if that clinger is a pretty woman. And then there is probably the sex. I suppose when you factor in the sex, as my brother Glenn has reminded me, it changes everything. On top of that, after meeting her the few times he has brought her home from school, and seeing the way she sticks to him, dutifully keeping him with a cold beer, and a full plate, Lori clearly knows what she's doing.

His mom doesn't like her much either, but even she has to admit that Lori has her claws in Rick, and whether she likes it or not, she seems here to stay.

Given the deep frown, and the stoic set of Rick's features, there seems to be some trouble in paradise. "So you're taking a break from your girlfriend of four years because you didn't want to go to Cabo and be loose? That's dumb."

"Nah…and she's not more girlfriend!" He groans. "Plus, it's a more than that. With graduation coming in two months, Lori's been telling me to loosen up and go with the flow. By the flow she means whatever she has planned for us. She's trying to move things between us along, ya know. I'm just trying to get through finals, Chonnie. I'm not ready to make decisions that will affect the rest of my life just yet. You know me, I don't plan that far ahead. One day at a time. But, she's pressing. Shane thinks she's probably already got the rings, and the white dress picked out, and I'm not even close to that yet. Not with her."

"She's infatuated with you." I blurt before I have a chance to school my tongue. I don't have a lot of experience with dating and relationships, but this one seems obvious. At least to me.

Rick doesn't even blanche at my statement, completely unbothered he shakes his head and releases a short disgusted snort. "Maybe. I think it's the idea of me, ya know? But not me specifically. Not really me. Who she wants me to be. It's like she has this infatuation with getting married, buying a house, having kids. She's got it all planned out, and me? I'm the interchangeable groom, the guy she can mold into what she wants. Hell, it doesn't have to even be me, I honestly think any guy would do. She says she loves me, but how? We never talked about love, or the future. I didn't."

Unsure of how to respond to this revelation, and maybe even a little uncomfortable with Rick divulging the cracks of things between him and Lori, a subject I have always attempted to keep my distance from, I steal a few glances his way and mumble. "Ah, I could see that."

Appearing frustrated, and giving off more words than a guy like Rick is normally known for, he continues, "I know this is all my fault. I know that. My dad said I should have gotten rid of her years ago, but she's not bad. She just wants something that I'm not sure is what I want. Does that make sense? Like she planned out this Cabo thing, and just assumed I would go along with it. I don't wanna go to Cabo with her and her friends. I barely like most of them, and definitely don't want to waste the little bit of money I have on hanging out in a different country with them."

"Right. I get it, Rick."

"Does this make sense? The more I say it out loud I'm just like 'what the fuck'!'"

"Yeah it makes sense. The girlfriend who's not your girlfriend, is trying to take your non-relationship to the next level, by force if necessary. Sounds crazy as hell, Rick, but this has kind of been her way all along. Right?"

"Yea, it is. I let everything with Lori just ride for too long, but now? I don't know…" His voice trails off, the last word dying as his thoughts drift into the cool breeze of the air blowing in through the open truck windows. For a moment we don't say anything. There's not really anything to say about that, except that knowing my friend, my best friend, as well as I do, he's struggling to figure out how he ended up here, and how to fix things without anyone getting hurt. He cares about everyone. Tries to make things right for everyone around him. But what about him?

I understand exactly where Rick is coming from, and even though I don't answer him immediately, the nod of my head, and me leaning into his side is my non-verbal way of communicating that to him. We've never needed words to know what's on the other's mind, and right now is no exception. I can tell by the stiff set of his body in his seat as his head bobs to the music coming through the car's speakers, that he's trapped in his own thoughts, body barely moving in tune to Dave Matthews' 'Crash into Me', the soundtrack that frames Rick's confession with its ominous lyrics.

"You've got your ball  
You've got your chain  
Tied to me tight tie me up again…"

If I were to give into my initial inclination to pick at him about Lori, like I have before, I would tease him about how appropriate this Gen X, flannel, stalker-ballad is for this conversation, but I won't. He doesn't need me to go there. My best friend is tussling with angst and uncertainty already, what good would a round of told you so's do right now?

Rick remains lost in his thoughts. Focused. Not so much on the actual road ahead of us, but more on the theoretical path forward. Wanting to ease some of the strain from what weighs on him, I try to change the subject again. Tapping his thigh to get his attention, I look up at him, "Hey, don't take me home just yet. Let's go do something fun. Just me and you. Like we used to. It's still early and I don't have to be home until 12. My parents thought I was going to be out with Mike for awhile, and it's only 8."

"What do you wanna do? You hungry?"

"I don't know. We could grab some snacks and just go chill in the treehouse. Maybe salvage the rest of the night?"

Rick rubs his hand up and down my arm, a comforting stroke that continues to settle my agitated spirit and remind me of the deep connection I have with my best friend. He pulls me in a little tighter and I can't help but enjoy the closeness of the person who probably knows me the best in the world.

Softening his voice, Rick doesn't answer my suggestion to hang out in our childhood hideaway, instead he changes direction a bit. "Chonnie, I know you don't want to tell me what happened with you and that guy Mike, but you can. I mean, I just vomited my shit with Lori at you. You can do the same if you need to."

"I know."

"I'm here for you. Always."

"I know, but I don't want to talk about that right now. Ok?"

"Ok."

Trying to move away from the heavy direction of our conversation now focused on me, I bring it back to what we should do next instead. "Let's get some beer and just hang out. I wanna have fun and catch up! It's been a while since we've done that. I have a new Black Panther comic I can read to you. Okoye is back kicking ass!"

Hesitating a bit before answering, Rick gives in to my lane change and utters a simple, "Cool." He nods, hitting his turn signal to lead us back towards our neighborhood. After a moment, he seems to have fully processed my request then frowns a little. "But wait, beer? You want me to enable underage drinking?"

"Yeah… I've already had one beer tonight anyway. No big deal."

Pulling his head back, maybe a little shocked by my admission, Rick responds, "Oh really? I didn't realize you were a drinker like that."

"I'm not. But I have a drink every now and then. I'm not a little kid, Rick. Loosen up, remember?"

"Yeah… Alright… since you're with me it's cool. But, listen, don't drink with people you don't know and trust. Ok? I assume you trust Mike, but, just be careful. I would hate to have to kill him if he did something to you, Chonnie."

"He… he wouldn't."

"You sure?" Rick asks, dragging his gaze from the road ahead of us, the tires of his pickup steadily speeding over the asphalt, to glance quickly over to me. The lighted glare from the streetlights and storefronts as we pass by, illuminate his face. I can see his eyes briefly study my face in my peripheral. I don't look back at him. Talking about Mike is dredging up the anger and hurt that caused me to call Rick to come get me from Mike's house party in the first place.

"I don't know." I shrug, feeling the slight haze from the beer I had earlier dulling my senses a bit. Forcing me to admit something that almost turns my stomach.

Cast in a stern frown at my droll and non-committal response, Rick looks over at me again, his white teeth making an appearance as he bites down on his bottom lip and shakes his head. "What the hell does that mean, Chonnie?"

"Don't call me that."

"Why not? That's what I've called you forever."

"Cause it's a kiddie sounding nickname and I'm not a baby or a kid, Rick." As I proffer my petulant demand to my friend, the words dance through the back of my brain, dredging up the way they were tossed at me with such disdain earlier. 'Stop acting like a baby!'

A soft chuckle rumbles through his body, his amusement at my protestation apparent, "Then what are you?"

"I'm a woman, Rick. I'm 18. And my name is Michonne, not Chonnie. No one calls me Chonnie anymore."

"Oh excuse me…Michonne. I was under the impression that you were the same girl I've known since she was five and my family moved next door to hers. Who used to play Star Wars with me, Glenn, and Jeffy and kick our asses with that wicked light saber your dad bought you. Or who used to have sleepovers with all of us in the tree house in our yard, reading comic books to everyone all night. Who beat up that little girl who pushed Jeffy into the deep end of your pool on Labor Day, and helped Glenn catch a frog in the creek behind my grandparents' house. Figured I'd earned the right to call you Chonnie still. Us going back to when you were a kid and all. Guess not."

Blowing out an exasperated breath, I have to admit, even through the frustration clouding my thoughts, Rick is right. I am that same girl. I remember when my dad bought me that light saber after seeing Stars Wars: Phantom Menace and I wanted to be Darth Maul for Halloween. Even though my mother thought Padme was more my speed, the ten-year-old tomboy in me was determined to be the evil badass with the double bladed light saber. Rick was Qui-Gon Jinn, with both Jeffy and Glenn being Anakin. Rick was also correct in that I beat all of them up regularly with my light saber.

We've known each other for thirteen years, with him and his brother Jeff being our neighbors, when their father opened a branch of their family furniture store in the city, moving them from King County to Atlanta. Our parents became fast friends, welcoming them to our middle class neighborhood in Ansley Park.

My little brother Glenn and I followed right along, becoming just as close with Rick and Jeff. Glenn and Jeff hit it off perfectly, both being pre-schoolers and barely out of pull ups, they were like peas in a pod. Which worked for both boys. Glenn was adopted by my parents when he was just a baby, right after his own parents, close friends and colleagues in the family medical practice my parents helmed along with the Rhees, were killed in a car accident while out on their first date night since his birth. He was only four months old. With no other family in the states to speak of, my parents happily brought Glenn into the family when I was three. I don't even remember life without my pain in the ass little brother, and wouldn't have it any other way.

Jeff on the other hand was what the Grimes' called their late in life surprise, unexpectedly coming along nearly seven years after Rick. Him moving right next door to another little boy around his age worked out much better for him than trailing after his much older brother, who rarely wanted to be bothered anyway.

Despite the fact that Rick was four years older than me, he and I hit it off as well. Well, not at first. Not when we first met. My mother had sent me next door to invite the new kids over to swim in our pool the summer they moved in. When he answered the door, and his mother asked who it was, his offhand response delivered with a quick lazy glance my way, and a shrug, was that it was some little boy. When he turned back towards me, at his mother's urging, to see what I wanted, I stood up straight, balled up my tiny five-year-old fist, cocked back and quickly punched him in his long, straight nose. At the loud yelp coming from the front door, his mother immediately made an appearance from somewhere in the house, alarmed at the sight of her son holding his palm over his nose, and of me taking off fast as a rabbit, back next door to my house.

Heading over to our house directly after, his mother and mine smoothed things over, with my mother explaining that with my short cropped fro, and tomboyish mannerisms, she understood why Rick was confused, and apologized profusely on my behalf. Even going so far as to make me also apologize to him, which I reluctantly did. After that, his mother stayed over our house with her boys for the rest of the day, getting to know my mother, and watching all of us play around in the pool. After finally accepting my apology for hitting him, Rick and I also found, over a game of 'anything you can do I can do better', featuring who can do the best jumps into the pool, make the biggest splash, or any other feat that I excelled at, that not only was I was indeed a girl. And a badass. But also, a pretty cool girl, and going forward his best friend, Chonnie.

Needless to say, when Rick says he has earned the right given our extensive history to call me Chonnie, he has. I'm still Chonnie. But I'm also not. I'm also Michonne, and that's a little different. At 18, about to be a high school graduate, I'm experiencing my emergence into real womanhood, and for the most part, Rick missed a lot of it. With him being away at college since I was 14, he has only caught small glimpses of my trek from pimply, brace faced pre-teen to a full breasted, young woman with a boyfriend. Rick's recollection of Chonnie is heavily influenced by his memories of me secreted away hiding in the tree house his dad built, sketching drawings, and reading comics, divulging all of my pre-teen angst and secrets to his happy to listen ear. While we have kept in touch via phone and email, my blossoming body and social life has kind of pulled me in a different direction. Into a more grown up version of myself. Michonne. Not Chonnie.

Grumbling a little at having to apologize and explain myself, and also a little embarrassed for snapping at my oldest and dearest friend, I raise up a little and wrap my arms around his broad shoulders. Offering Rick a hug, a gesture I've used over the years to convey my sincerity and to connect with him, I soften my words. "Sorry, Rick. I'm still Chonnie. Just…no one calls me that anymore."

"I still call you that."

"Yeah well, I guess you can still do it. But not around other people. Ok?"

Turning his head towards me, he places a quick peck to my forehead, the same way he has done so many times before. I admit, if only to myself, that it does feel good to sink back into the comfortable familiarity of our friendship. Our expressions of friendship still there between us, even though our time apart has strained our bond.

"Alright. As long as I can still use it I'm good."

"Fine."

Gently, almost with a modicum of hesitance, Rick takes the conversation in reverse, still trying to figure out this thing from tonight with Mike. "So, now that we are passed that, you sure you don't wanna tell me why I had to come pick you up from that house party with your boy Mike?"

"Not really." I mumble, easing my way back across the bench seat to my side of the truck again. Leaning up against the passenger window, the sting of the memory of Mike's taunts and teases, his face twisted in displeasure, hits me hard again. I don't want to talk about it. Especially not with Rick. While I may be able to toss around my newfound womanhood to Rick with little effort, Mike knows better. He has tested my stance, and found it…for a better word…lacking. I suppose that's how he would put it. Or what was the other word he used? Frigid. Or was it scared? Juvenile?

Pulling up to the gas station, Rick puts the truck in park then studies me again, a hint of frustration clouding his face. He doesn't get my reluctance to discuss Mike with him, and I know him. He's not going to let this go. That's not how we roll. We tell each other everything. Always. He was the first person I told when I got my period. Not my friend, and fellow cheerleader Rosita, who had gotten hers a few months prior and told me immediately. Not even my own mother. I told Rick, who at 16 evidenced his own adolescent immaturity, and wasn't exactly sure what to do with that information other than to ask me if I was going to be moody now or still cool.

Internally I chuckle at the memory, and how casual and open we usually are with each other. This wall of silence between us right now is pissing him off. My reluctance to be with him how I have always been is a quizzical piece of this new mature woman. Michonne. But, remembering that he is no fan of Mike's I simply don't want to add fuel to that fire. Especially since his dislike is based on the one time they met at Christmas and Mike gifted me with an expensive gold ring with a small amethyst, my birth stone, in front of my family, as a 'promise ring'. Rick, using his big college words, called it pretentious and assumptive, noting that at 17 and 18 we shouldn't be promising each other anything that we don't know we can actually deliver on. I didn't understand his angst behind those comments, and not until I discussed it with my mother did she explain that Rick has always been protective of me and just doesn't want to see me get into something too serious too soon, did I even get a little perspective on his odd response to the gift. Her explanation was sparse, bare, but to the point and knowing that she's right, and recalling the many times that Rick has looked out for me, I let it go and decided to just keep Rick and Mike away from each other.

With Rick away at school it has been easy to do. To keep them apart. And to fall, hopelessly, nose wide open, into Mike. How could I not? He's the embodiment of a teenaged girl's dream. Tall, dark, handsome, smart, athletic. We had AP Chemistry together at the beginning of this year, and when the teacher made us partners, things just bloomed from there. We became a couple, and though it seems too classic and cliché, the cheerleader and the football jock, it felt meant to be.

Until now, I haven't had a lot of experience with boys. My parents wouldn't let me date until my senior year, and outside of the kid stuff I know from growing up with my brother Glenn, Jeff, and Rick, I didn't really know what to expect with Mike. I just knew that he had a good sense of humor. That he always had jokes. People liked him, he was popular. More importantly, other girls liked him. A lot. But he chose me. The day he turned that handsome grin of his, full of mischief and mirth, on me, and asked if I wanted to hang out after this upcoming Friday's football game, was something I will never forget. It felt foreign, odd. Exciting. Like I had been plucked from obscurity and thrust into an exciting new existence as one of the cool kids.

I may have been a cheerleader but that was only because I was flexible, had good rhythm, and was one of the only girls who despite having no formal gymnastics training, was a natural at tumbling and stunts. I wasn't popular. Michonne Anderson wasn't known for being gregarious or outgoing. Studious? Yes. Serious? Yes. Nerdy even? Absolutely. But popular or pretty? No. With my dark skin and natural long dreads, I wasn't considered pretty by most guys' standards, at least none of them ever made me aware that I was. I didn't technically fit in like my beautiful friend Rosita, with her caramel complexion, and loose silken locks, thanks to her Hispanic mother and Black father. I wasn't tough or cool like my girl Sasha, who seemed to move so effortlessly, with an air of indifference of others' approval, through the halls of our private high school, Piedmont Academy. And with her boyfriend Abe, three years older, and enrolled in the army, Sasha was truly above the childish dynamics of high school society.

I suppose if I really think about it, there was also a bit of curiosity that drove me to succumb to Mike's attentions. Curiosity about the highest social strata of teenaged society, and about Mike. About boys. About sex. But now, now that I'd danced so close to that fire and gotten burned, chickened out when it mattered, I realize I was completely out of my depth.

From the corner of my eye I can see that Rick is still staring, and obviously trying to understand my unwillingness to share more about Mike, which is very unlike me, especially with him. I squirm a bit under the focus of those blue eyes, looking away when the heft of it becomes too much. Scoffing at my reluctance, Rick exits and I turn back to his side of the truck to watch his steady, unhurried gait carry him into the store.

Over the time we have known each other, I'm not the only one that has changed. At least in appearance. Rick's face, now almost completely devoid of the baby chub that used to round out his features, showcases that he is all man. From the skinny, bow legged kid, with the curly mop of dark brown hair, who taught me how to pop a proper wheelie on my bike, to this man. Man. Yes, Rick is definitely now a man. It's a transformation I became aware of years ago when he started dating and I watched with youthful amazement and wonder as he courted one blonde or brunette after another, but due to my own inexperience with men and being younger, I didn't process it until we had been apart for a few months and he came home for Thanksgiving last year.

In his normal uniform of t-shirt and jeans, Rick though always lean, has filled out. His upper body bulking into a broader frame, stretching those t-shirts snugly over his chest and back. The sleeves hugging around his biceps. Curls loose and dusting his nape. He's a good looking guy. It's not an uncomfortable realization by any means, but it is odd to acknowledge that my friend with the dark scruff bristling across his masculine jaw and cheeks, is more guy than goof.

I'm not the only one who has noticed. As I continue to track his movement through the glass of the convenience store, I take note of the blonde behind the counter smiling brightly at him. Tossing her hair about as she's chatting him up, eyeing him wistfully as he gives her that Grimes grin that I always tease him about, then walks away. Back to his truck. Back to me. I get an odd thrill at that. At him not taking her bait. That little voice in the back of mind though? The one that held a secret crush on Rick the year he turned 16 and I was a pubescent 12-year-old taking full on stock of every boy that crossed my path, that my father was sure to warn me away from. That crush was short lived though, and probably just a side effect of my own burst of puberty taking over my hormones. But still, the way his face lights up when he catches me looking at him through the windshield…

XXXXX

"This is probably the best comic you've done. I'm proud of you. Even better than that Black Panther comic you just read to me."

"Thanks." I mumble around a mouthful of the chocolatey crunch of the Big Kat candy bar Rick got me from the convenience store at the gas station. Sitting up and turning towards him, I reach for the beer in his hand, and gulp down the rest of it, washing down the sweet treat. "Do you really like it? Like you don't think it's too crazy? A black, female samurai, wielding a katana and killing zombies?"

Flat on his back with one hand behind his head, and the other holding the latest issue of the comic series I have been privately working on for over a year, Rick's eyes scan the colorful illustrations I've drawn, and he scrunches his face as though he's giving my question serious thought. "Nah, I don't think so. I mean… it's different that's for sure. But that's what folks want. How many times can writers recycle stories about straight white male superheroes and still keep it interesting?"

"That's quite progressive of you, Mr. Grimes."

"Yeah well…" he slurs a little and shrugs, carefully placing the comic on the floor and reaching his hand back to me for his beer. Shaking it and finding it empty, he reaches to his side for another and twists the cap off. Tossing it across the wooden floor of the elevated tree house, it lands and skids into the pile of of beer caps we have already accumulated over the last two hours.

"No seriously. When I showed this to Mike he said it's too different to be widely accepted. He said it would be a niche thing."

"He's a dick."

"Rick! That was mean."

"That he's a dick, or that I called him a dick?"

"Both I guess. He's not as bad as you think."

"Oh no? That why you called me to come and pick you up from his house on a Friday night?" he asks, his dark eyebrows raised high on his forehead. Rick leans up, resting on left elbow, and swigs down a long gulp of his beer. "He must have done something pretty dickish for you to need me to come get you."

"He didn't do anything, Rick. Not really."

"Not really? Or not at all? Which is it, Chonnie?"

Even through the dullness of my senses hiding behind the four beers I've consumed tonight, I recognize the telling blaze of those crystal blue eyes of his. I don't answer Rick. I don't want to feed into his temper, the unreasonable animosity he already has for Mike. And despite the fact that ninety percent of the time Rick is very laid back, there is that ten percent. The same ten percent that led him to his share of fights growing up. Instead, hearing the lilting chords of one of my favorite songs softly filtering from my iPod on a speaker dock on the other side of the small treehouse, I rise to my feet. Reaching my hand towards where Rick is still reclined on the pallet of blankets draped over the wooden planks of the floor, I nervously swallow down the truth of what happened with Mike tonight. After a beat, Rick takes my hand and joins me.

"Watch the sunrise  
Say your goodbyes  
Off we go  
Some conversation  
No contemplation  
Hit the road…"

Towering over me, even without his boots, he stands in front of me, fingers rubbing together anxiously as they rest on the belt at his lean hips. He studies my face. "You gonna answer me?"

"You gonna dance with me?" Changing the subject I ease my hands over his shoulders, fingers bunching in the cotton of his t-shirt, then begin to sway a little, encouraging him to join me. "Hey do you remember when I was twelve, and you took me, Sasha, and Rosita to that Maroon 5 concert?"

Unwillingly, not moving much at first, he begins following my lead. Rick's body begins to slowly sway to the beat of the music. His feet starting an easy two step, conducting a back and forth of our bodies to the music. "Unfortunately yes, I do remember that."

"Remember how much I loved this song?"

A tiny smile takes over his face, curving his lips, and he gives me a single nod of his head. "You were too young to even understand what secret Adam Levine was talking about."

"I know a little more about that now. Those kinds of secrets."

"Car overheats  
Jump out of my seat  
On the side of the highway, baby  
Our road is long  
Your hold is strong  
Please don't ever let it go, oh no…"

"What are you talking about, Chonnie?" his grip on my waist tightens. Sucking in a breath, I take in the scent of his cologne that is still fragrant in the fibers of his t-shirt, and gather the courage to confess to my friend. I'm ashamed. I don't know how to discuss this kind of stuff with him. It's not that we haven't talked about sensitive topics before. But somehow over the years of talking about school, family, movies, and music, the subject of sex has never really come up.

I remember when he started dating, when things changed somewhat with us. He was gone more. Girls would come by his house looking for him. He would be off with his cousin Shane more often, meeting up with girls at parties, at their homes. I was only ten, and I didn't understand. I couldn't understand. It was just another eroded part of our childhood friendship. It made the chasm between us grow wider, deeper. Once he hit puberty, hanging out in the tree house and reading comics wasn't really sufficient anymore. Not like it once was. Now, he and Shane spent more time whispering about who had gotten boobs over the summer, than hanging out with me.

At first it hurt, it bothered me. My juvenile brain couldn't figure out why Rick was changing, moving further away from me both physically and emotionally. And then it happened. I saw it with my own eyes. On a day when he was supposed to be home from school sick, I busted him on his parents' couch in the front room, making out with some girl who lived two streets over. Barging in the room, I couldn't at first make heads or tails of what I was seeing. Rick fully clothed, on top of the girl. His lips fused to hers. His hips pushing hungrily into her. For a moment all I could do was watch. Standing there in the doorway with a Tupperware bowl of soup my mother asked me to bring over for him in my hand.

Rick never spotted me. He never came up for air long enough. I eventually backed away, heading back the way I came from the side door by the kitchen. Retreating to my own home, I locked my bedroom door, and that was that. I couldn't talk to Rick, the one person I would talk to about things that didn't make sense. I was embarrassed for him, for myself, for the girl. Flushed and confused by what I had witnessed, and the odd way it made me feel to see him like that. In the end, there was nothing to say anyway, and throughout both of our adolescence it became a taboo thing.

Sex. We just never talked about it. We talked around it. Naively pretending that neither of us were aware of it physically for ourselves, or for the other person. But that doesn't change the truth. I know Rick has been with girls. But what does he know about me and who I've been with?

Looking away from Rick's wandering gaze, I study the space around us. The poster lined walls of the small tree house his father built for us kids. The size of a small bedroom, built in the aged branches of the strong live oak near the back center of the Grimes' large yard, it had been our childhood hideaway for years. Initially it was a project that his dad, a carpenter, had decided to undertake to teach his boys about the family business of general woodworking and furniture making. But when Glenn and I took an interest as well, he made a fun activity for all of us, allowing us all to help with cutting boards, measuring, nailing. Since then this tree house has been a place for all of us to hide away. For playtime. For sleepovers. For secrets.

Tilting his head a little to the right, a mannerism he has always had, an indicator that he's trying to figure things out, he roams his eyes over my face. I can't see all of him, just the pale illumination of the moon's blue glow spotlighting him through the window imbedded in the shingled roof of the tree house.

With a few white lights strung across the ceiling as well, they add just enough light to add to the dreamy pall cast over us, making it seem as though we are dancing among the stars. Rick's arm wraps around my waist, tightly, perhaps as an indicator of his anxiousness for me to expound on my thoughts. He's communicating wordlessly through his large hand, letting me know I'm safe here with him. And maybe it's that feeling, of being secure with Rick, but light and free, ethereal and otherworldly among the stars, that's making me feel calm enough to attempt an explanation.

"He wanted to. I couldn't." I sniff, emotion beginning to well in my throat. "I tried though. I wanted to try for him."

"Wait… you wanted to try what for who?" His body stiffens, his movements halt. The music continues to play.

"I know I don't know you  
But I want you so bad  
Everyone has a secret  
Oh, can they keep it  
Oh, no they can't…"

"I thought I was ready, ya know? I'm eighteen. I wanted to know what it feels like, but, I couldn't go through with it. I don't know why I couldn't. We were kissing, and he was on top of me…" I blow out a breath, trying to gather myself as the words rush out in a feverish flurry. "And I told him to stop, but he didn't want to. He kept saying this is what I wanted. He's right, I did want it, but I guess I got scared or something. So I tried to push him off. I did – I… I did push him off. And he got angry. Called me a baby and a tease. I grabbed my clothes and rushed out of the house. I- I-"

"Shh… you don't have to say anymore, Chonnie, shh..." Holding my head to his chest, Rick cradles me, hugs me close. The deep rumble of his voice lulls me, helps to settle my nerves as they feel ragged and frayed as I tell Rick about my failed attempt at losing my virginity tonight. "You never have to do anything you don't want to. Ever."

"I know. I just felt bad. I did want to. I do want to. It's time. I want to know what desire and passion are like."

Clearing his throat, voice a low rasp, Rick mutters haltingly, as though he's almost afraid to say it, "But not with Mike?"

"Yeah? I think so. I don't know… I didn't expect him to be so… rough."

"He was rough with you? Did he hurt you?"

Shaking my head a little I dispel the notion that Rick is questioning, and glance up into his face. "No he didn't hurt me. Maybe he hurt my feelings a little. I'm a grown up, why can't I just do it already?! What am I waiting on?"

Pulling his lips into a press between his teeth, Rick dips his head to latch on to my eyes. I can't sustain the meeting of our eyes though. I feel ashamed that I led Mike on. That I might have given him the wrong impression. That I had convinced myself that I was ready, but clearly I was wrong. Hell Sasha and Abe have been sleeping together since last year. And Rosita is definitely having sex with Spencer. They are practically fused at the lips more times than not. Then there's me, hanging on to something that I have been holding on to like a magical secret for so long. Wishing. Waiting for the right guy, the perfect moment. And just when I think this is it, I had found my guy and my moment? I froze. Mike's kiss was too hurried, with his tongue forcing its way into my mouth. Mike's movements were too rushed, with the way he fell on top of me, quickly dropping to my neck and lips a few kisses. His long, heavy body fully on top of mine with his hands shoving themselves up my dress. I can't forget the way he parted my thighs, the gruff thrust of his fingers through my folds, abrading me harshly without the lubrication of my arousal. I was too afraid to be excited. Too stiff to willingly open for him.

Rick's fingers haltingly tickle across my cheeks, and lightly tilt my face up to meet his. He's staring now. The full on depth of his gaze is on me, softening the blue of his eyes as they drop from my own to my lips.

"What?" I huff, nervously slapping my hands against the tops of my thighs where my flowered mini dress, skirts and flutters lightly across my skin.

"Nothing."

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

"I can't look at you?"

"No. I mean… I guess. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Quickly his brows furrow in confusion, and a short smirk tilts his full lips. "Like what?"

"Like that!" I assert, pointing my index finger and bopping the tip of his nose with my freshly polished nails.

Chuckling at my accusation, his grin grows wider across his face. "You're a beautiful girl, Michonne. Mike sees that, but he doesn't know you."

"What does that mean, Rick?"

"Maybe Mike isn't the right guy. Not for you."

Scoffing at his brief declaration I can't help but get a little pissed. I know that everyone thinks Mike and I don't fit. I'm the nerdy girl in every teenage movie that gets a makeover and suddenly finds herself hot enough for the popular guy. I get it. Ridding myself of my thick glasses, squirreling them away with my love of Star Trek, Star Wars, and comics, along with making the cheerleading squad, and a strategically placed lab partner is what got me here. But that doesn't mean that I'm not ready, or that I can't have a guy like Mike. That I don't want to experience the same feelings that Rosita and Sasha, and countless other girls my age, are constantly raving about. I want to know what it's like.

"I know you don't like Mike, Rick, but this isn't about him. I'm the one who messed this up and chickened out. I ruined it. He was just upset, that's all."

"No, he's just a spoiled punk who doesn't deserve you. Sex is…" Shaking his head back and forth as though he's trying to find the right words, Rick looks away for a moment and takes a moment to finish his thoughts. "Sex is about more than just being ready. It's a way to connect with someone that you care about. Don't waste that on Mike just because you want to tick off the next thing on your meticulous little to do list, Chonnie. Save it for someone who appreciates you."

"Mike does appreciate me. I'm wearing his ring, Rick. This is serious." I raise my left hand to show Rick the ring that Mike gave me over Christmas that set him off on the path of hating Mike. Licking at my lips, feeling the buzzed effects of the numerous beers I've consumed, I continue to rebut Rick's proclamation. "As much sex as you're having I don't see you waiting for some special girl who appreciates you. Ya know, everyone expects that a woman is supposed to act like her virginity is this gift for the guy, that she should keep under lock and key or something. But that guys can whip their dicks out for any girl that passes by. Well I'm not interested in that. I'm ready for sex, Rick. I'm going to have sex with Mike. I just… I just need to ease in to it is all. Not so rough and rushed…"

"I don't know who told you how much sex I'm having or not having, but you're right, sex shouldn't be rushed or rough. You should feel safe with your partner, and trust them enough for you to let your inhibitions down, so he can pleasure you. That way sex can be fun for you, and it's something that should be enjoyed by both parties equally. Right?" Quirking an eyebrow, and rubbing his thumbs over the apples of my cheeks, Rick asks that last question, his voice a grade deeper, huskier, and for some reason a tiny jolt, a zing of something rushes up my spine. Tickles my skin. Maybe it's just the draft from this old tree house? It's early spring and the weather hasn't quite gotten to the heated stickiness of summer just yet, so it's possible that it was simply the coolness of the night air. Right?

Rubbing my hands over my arms, where my dress's capped sleeves leave them bare, I can feel the raised bumps. These feelings confuse me at first. Bring to mind more questions than answers, but they also light a fire in my belly. And lower. Cause a stirring of butterflies to take off in my chest. In that moment, with just those few words between us, I make a decision that will change everything between Rick and I.

As though my body is now possessed by a singular purpose, my right hand stretches out to Rick's waist, and rests my fingers on the waistband of his jeans. With initial trepidation they move tentatively to the belt and buckle, inching the worn leather from the metal clasp. Eyes focused on my task, I'm moving so quickly that I don't realize that my breathing is so labored, ragged, stuttering from between my lips pursed between my teeth.

"Michonne? Chonnie? What are-"

"Don't stop me. Please, Rick."

"I- I don't know what you're doing." He questions as he steps back a little and bends his legs to dip and try to capture my eyes, to make sense of my actions. Actions which are so out of character. So completely at odds with what our friendship has historically been about. I can't even tell him. Form the words to explain myself. All I know is that for the first time since I've known Rick, there is a spark of something else enlivened in me for him, and I want to follow it. I need to see where this goes. What it means. Because it's new, not just in terms of a new feeling for Rick, but for me at all. Mike's words, touches, have never emboldened me to action like this. Have never created a storm of lust and need coursing through my veins. No, this is…different.

Grabbing at my trembling fingers, Rick softly wraps his hand around my own and with his head lowered, speaks carefully into the downy ropes of my dreads covering my face. "Hey, Chonnie, listen. Don't do something you might regret, ok? I-"

"You don't want me?" Finally lifting my eyes to his, trepidation that this is not something that Rick wants, finally halts my movements. My heart nearly arrests at the idea that I have crossed a line that he would never breach. How could I be so stupid, I wonder to myself, the realization drooping my shoulders and stealing the confidence in my actions. "I'm sorry…"

"No! Hey! Of course I do, I would! Who wouldn't? Jesus, sweetheart!" Roaming his steady hands back to my face, Rick is near frantic in his assertions. "I just don't want you to make a mistake with me. We're friends. We've always been just…friends."

"I thought- you said safe." Gulping down my hesitation I want to explain. "I trust you, I feel safe with you. We always have fun. Why would this be different?"

"Chonnie, because it is. It changes things. Sex is complicated too, and feelings get…confused. I don't want me and you to be complicated. You are my oldest friend. My girl. My Chonnie." The confusion clouding his face pains me. His protestations and reasoning cut me low, shed light on the truth that my lowered inhibitions tried to suppress.

Wanting to remove the frown from his handsome face, I rush out the very same reasoning that led me to reach for him in the first place. That blossomed from his own utterance of a few key words. Laying my hand flat against his chest, I can feel his heart hammering a banging cadence. The planes of muscle found there, thinly concealed by his t-shirt, are familiar. It comforts me and livens my tongue to assert my point and offer clarity. "But we're not complicated, Rick. Me and you is so simple and pure. Who else would I want my first time to be with?"

"Someone that you love, Chonnie. I don't know!" Tossing his hands hurriedly through his long curls, he's pulling at the ends, disheveling the thick locks that taper away from his face. He's obviously fighting against my reasoning with his own. "Let's take a minute and think about this. I'm not the guy for you. You deserve so much better than me. I'm just Rick, sweetheart. You mean so much more to me than just sex."

He's right of course. He is my friend. My very best friend. I learned to skateboard with this guy, our bonds deepening over skinned knees, kick flips, and ollies. And despite our age and gender differences, we've shared our most intimate feelings and emotions with each other. Laid bare our true selves at the most vulnerable times. Rick is the guy who held me in his lap while I cried like a baby when my cat got hit by a car and died. He's the guy who spent nearly a month staying with us when his parents divorced and he simply couldn't deal with his mother's sadness. This is why I suppose he does have a valid point. Our friendship is a bridge that holds us together, that binds us, and should not be blown to pieces by the base, carnality of casual sex. I should have known better. This isn't just about me.

"I'm so sorry!" Stepping further back from him, out of his reach, I'm ashamed. Embarrassed. And even though I can feel the effects of the beer deadening the sting of it a bit, I can still tell that I've done something very wrong here. The words Rick spoke somehow dredged up the wrong inclinations and conclusions, and right now all I can do as I attempt to gather my things is to keep muttering how sorry I am. Rushing towards the door, I'm ready to head down the ladder and run back towards my house, shame enlivening me to move quicker than my buzz wants to allow.

Then I can feel him. The heat of his body, warm, close. His hands on my hips as I bend to pick up my purse. Gripping, tightening his fists in a claim of the lean curve of my body, then releasing slowly, as though he's uncertain. But then he pushes forward into me, and oh god, I feel all of him. Pressing, prodding into the cushion of my ass, and I freeze at the sensation. At the weighty heft, hanging stiffly at the juncture of his thighs.

"Michonne, don't leave." Rick breathes out, his voice gruff and throaty, fighting against the heave of his chest to push the words out. "Please, sweetheart, don't run away."

"I read this wrong, Rick. I just – I thought who better than my best friend?"

Wrapping his arms around my waist and torso, he lifts me to him, pressing my back to his front. With his face rubbing along the back of my head, he lowers his lips to just below my ear and whispers in a voice so low I almost can't hear him, "I don't deserve this gift, sweetheart. I don't. But… I can't let you give it to someone else." He's a man of few words. Always has been. Through the years I have always been the chatty one, with Rick satisfied to let me talk and talk, and him to listen. Only offering a few well thought out sentences here and there, but always so attentive and mindful of my words. Of me. It's why his declaration now, still straight and to the point, no filler, no beating around the bush, hits me so squarely in the heart.

"I don't want it to be anyone else. I choose you, Rick."

With that, all of the words that are going to be said have laid themselves before us. We could talk it out more, just to be sure alcohol isn't making the decision for us. But I know it's not. Yes, we have both been drinking. But that doesn't change how I feel. Though Rick and I have never crossed any sort of sexual lines before, my full self is telling me that doing so now is ok.

Turning in his hold, I find myself face to face with a red faced Rick. The scarlet hue has overtaken him, coloring down his neck and into his shirt. If I were more experienced with sex I might have known that this scarlet flush is not from embarrassment or uncertainty, but from lust, want. Need. But I don't have to wait long to learn this first lesson, because Rick's lips swiftly descend upon mine. With masterful patience and care, his plush pink lips press into mine. Little pecks along the seam of my own lips are my first introduction to intimacy... with my best friend.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Rick

"I don't want it to be anyone else. I choose you, Rick."

And there it is, the words that flipped my world upside down.

It's not that I never thought about it before. About Michonne in that way. Of course I have. How couldn't I? We've always been so close. Shared everything from a passionate love of pizza and chocolate, to movies, both loving the tragic hopefulness of the Lion King, and even to clothes. Obviously that's a skewed one with Michonne often nabbing my t-shirts and hoodies for her own use, rarely returning them. On the off chance that she does, with the unique fragrance of her still lingering, the fabric somehow infinitely infused with her.

We have even shared things that some would consider highly private or personal. My disappointment after my parents' divorce when I was 17, the trailing sadness that permeated my home, from my mother down to Jeff and I, drastically palpable. The only respite from my mother's tears, my brother's constant appeals to better understand what this means for us, and my own disillusionment with the whole institution of marriage, was in my best friend's home. It was there that I found that nothing had changed. Life kept going at the Anderson home, as though my mother and father had not decided to end their years long marriage, citing irreconcilable differences. A phrase that was never followed by a clear explanation of what the hell that even was.

Michonne's family embraced me and let me setup shop in their home, their guest room becoming my room. Their family dinners filling my belly. Their young son trailing all of my steps with his unending questions about armpit hair and girls. Mr. Anderson assuring me, as we watched more than our share of sports, much to Mrs. Anderson's chagrin, that everything would work out fine in the end. Mrs. Anderson fussing over me, making sure I had clean clothes, and plenty of hugs.

And of course, my Chonnie, sneaking into the guest room every night to read comics with me, or often to simply just lull me with her constant chatter about one thing or another. Having to shave her legs now. Does that hurt? Her mother finally relenting and allowing her to loc her hair. Did I think that would be cute on her? Was it odd that she had a crush on Captain Picard from Star Trek, cause he's totally old enough to probably be her grandfather, but still to her he was hot. The simplicity of her presence, the nearness of her, the familiar cadence of her words uttered with the safety that whatever she had to say, whether some might have thought it strange or not, I wouldn't judge her for it, has always been what I needed. How I relished the slight weight of her head resting on my arm as she doodled and drew illustrations for whatever comic she was working on. The dark ink from her Copic Mulitliner pen scribbling with quick, short strokes, followed by the scratchy melody as the pen's point brushed the paper.

That time with her was something I could rely on, that I needed to anchor me while the uncertainty of my parents' crumbling relationship had my family adrift and me feeling untethered. That time with Michonne signified a feeling of security. Home.

Not once on those nights spent hiding away at the Andersons did I turn over in bed, and not find Michonne right next to me. While I fought hard never to sexualize her as her thin body pressed close to mine, to not give in to my adolescent thoughts of her as a possible romantic partner, it always rested anxiously in the back of my mind. Especially when she would innocently wrap her arms around mine, and simply…breathe. Her sweet breaths, often tacked onto a tiny snore, washed over me as I would lay awake, staring at the ceiling, sleep evading me as my mind raced with thoughts. About nothing. About everything. About the very thought of her, and me…that way…always there, haunting me. Almost animating my hands to reach for her. Hold her tightly. My lips to say the words. My eyes to fall on hers, that soft smile, her dusky frame, for just a hair too long.

But, she was only 13. I was always too old for her. And she was Chonnie. My friend. My best friend. The only person on this planet who knew that I secretly wanted to be a police officer instead of following in my father and grandfather's footsteps into the family business of hand making furniture. The only one that I let in on my secret confession that I suspected my father had cheated on my mother, and that this was the true source of their breakup. Michonne was the only one who knew that I had a secret fear of dying young like my mother's father, my grandpa Carl, a life long smoker, who had a sudden heart attack at 32, leaving her and her four brothers and her mother to fend for themselves. Michonne was the only person in the world who knew that this was the reason I always watched what I ate, and when some of my friends were busy trying cigarettes, I stayed away, mortified by the health implications and haunted by the memory of a man I never knew. She knew everything about me, with maybe the exception of one thing.

If I think just a little harder on it now, and swear to be fully transparent with myself, my memory easily pulls from its Michonne file, numerous instances that have foreshadowed that at some point, this would come to pass.

From spring to early fall of every year since my family moved next door, Michonne has donned a tiny bikini while hanging out at her pool. Every. Year. The year I hit puberty, when I was 14 and she was 10? Yeah she was still very skinny and tomboyish, but oh man was I suddenly aware that my best friend, that my Chonnie, with her tiny breast buds, was a girl. And it wasn't like the ew, she's a girl kinda thing either. It was the, oh hell, Chonnie is a…girl, kind of thing.

How could I ever forget the summer she got full breasts? Oh god, when she turned 14, it was the summer she was going to be a freshman in high school, and I was going to be leaving in the fall for college. I was fresh on 18, hormones all over the place, tiring of the bumpy ups and downs of my relationships with different girls, and she had just returned from a trip to Hawaii with her parents who took her and her brother Glenn on a family vacation every summer the week after school got out. When she came over to bring the souvenirs for my mother, brother, and I that her family had brought home for us, I nearly choked on my Coke when she popped up at the front door in a bikini top and the tiniest shorts ever. The yellow triangles of the bikini top barely covered her breasts. Barely. The shorts displayed the length of her shapely legs, and hung shamelessly low on her slightly curved hips. With a new belly button piercing to match her superbly, sun kissed skin, I almost died simply looking at her. My Chonnie wasn't just a girl, she was becoming a woman.

What had happened to my friend? Where was the girl with braces, a little acne, with arms and legs too long for her body, and glasses thick enough to make her eyes swim behind their lenses? In front of me was a shapely young woman, who only slightly resembled my little Chonnie. My eyes were having a hard time processing this beautiful butterfly, newly emerged from her cocoon, eagerly bouncing up and down in her flip flops, breasts jiggling against my chest as she hugged me, so excited to see me after two weeks away. My body though? My body was more than happy to accept the press of her softly curved form, and with a bitter twinge of disgust that I was sexualizing my best friend, I gingerly pushed her off. Not wanting her to feel how excited my body was to see her. To see my Chonnie.

Now, here we are, but this time I can't push her away. I'm not strong enough. Her sexy allure too powerful for me to fight it. And perhaps she's right. Maybe, just maybe I do deserve what she's offering. Her and me, doing this, might be the perfect match. It's not like I desperately love this girl. It's not like with Lori, who I have allowed to stubbornly attach herself to me for years. Lori is convenient. Easy. Until now, with her newly introduced demands of love and a future, has she really persisted to the point where I need to finally do something about her. Historically, Lori has been just another woman.

I've had my share of women. I'm neither ashamed nor proud of that. From the first girl I slept with at 14, to the various faceless women I have had the pleasure of in between the downtime with Lori when she swears she's done with me, to Lori herself, I've known women. But one thing is for certain, none of them, not one, has caused my cock to stiffen like this. My pulse to throb, palms to sweat, and my heart to crash, without care or thought of damage, plummeting into the pool of desire forming just for her. For Michonne.

All it took was one touch from her. The furious movements of her thin fingers at my belt buckle and the button on my jeans. Determination lighting her beautiful face, the twinkling of the tiny white lights strung across the tree house, making her seem…almost angelic. Even as her machinations ushered in a sense of naughty devilment.

When she questioned that perhaps I didn't want her, my heart almost arrested, crashed with even the minor thought that I wouldn't love to ravish her. To feast on every piece of her that she was offering. How could she even think it? Gathering her things to leave me, to run from the possibility of us, I had to stop her. I had to. Despite my own misgivings concerning my worth of something as precious as the tiniest taste of her purity, I want her. I don't deserve her. Hell no! Matter of fact, no man does. But even less so? That guy Mike. That smug, presumptuous bastard definitely doesn't. Nope. Not the asshole who doesn't really know her. The real Michonne. No, the son of a bitch who tried to lock her down with some bullshit promise ring, right in front of me, as though the thought of him making her laugh and smile as he gave her the ring, didn't almost completely destroy me and make me want to pummel his face with my fist. Not him. I can't think of a man alive who could love and cherish her the way she deserves, but… But! If there is a man who could try? It's gonna be me.

So there it is. Fuck Mike! Lori who?

"Rick?"

"Hm?" her voice pulls me back from my thoughts, and back to her lips. Those lips. Lips that have uttered my name a thousand times before, have never looked so sweet and delicious, tempting as they do now.

In this moment, her graceful fingers are twisting in my shirt, helping her to lever herself closer to me, pressing her soft round breasts to my chest. Michonne looks up at me with so much love and hope, and desire banked in her dark chocolate eyes, that I can't help but to be drawn in by her. I don't follow my grunted answer to her again with something more intelligible, it's impossible anyway since my brain is short circuited and solely focused on having her. Instead I follow with a series of pecks to those lips, the pull undeniable. With my hands on either side of her face, thumbs caressing the rounded apples of her cherubic cheeks, I ease my tongue inside of her mouth. Jesus she tastes amazing! Without any further thought my tongue begins a slow tangle with hers, and with the feeling of her plush lips sucking, pliant and wet against mine, opening for my tongue's exploration, I'm gone. Completely, utterly, done for.

My left hand is now at her slim waist, slowly inching further down to tightly grab a handful of her soft ass. My right moves to wrap around the back of her head, a cottony tuft of her soft dreads in my fist. I'm holding her head, trying to focus, and keep her still so that my tongue can taste and plunder her sweet mouth. Chocolate laces her tongue, so sugary and decadent, but I can't figure if it's all from the candy she just ate, or if this is Michonne. Lifting herself to the balls of her feet, teetering like a delicate ballerina, writhing and dancing her body against mine, I decide with honest finality that the sweetness I taste is all her. With that my head amps me up, cranks my setting on high, with the sole purpose of sampling and tasting every inch of this woman's sweetness.

This descent into passionate madness is almost painful. Almost. It's because my heart wants to take it slow. To take my time with her. Michonne is the single most important woman in my life, and has been for so long that I can hardly remember a time before her. Before she punched me in the nose with her little five-year-old fist, and showed me how to do a proper cannonball into her pool. With each thunderous beat of my heart, raucous and loud in my ear, I am reminded that this isn't just any girl. Our history, our familiarity with each other, her trust of me to guide her through this, demands my total compliance to making this a momentous and pleasurable occasion for her. Not just a rapacious looting of her treasure. With my sweet Chonnie I need to take my time, calm my lustful impulse to lift her in my arms, push her up against the wall, and fuck her. Just the thought of it is making me sweaty, a blazing fire despite the chill of the night air breezing in through the cracks of the tree house.

But that inclination right there? To treat her like I have all of the nameless, faceless women I have slept with over the years, and disregard her needs? That's the basest part of me, and I don't want that for her. Michonne doesn't deserve that. For her, I want everything perfect and beautiful. Every time she thinks about her first time, I want her to think of me, and the pleasure I'm going to give her. But maybe one day I can introduce her to different avenues to find pleasure…? Something a little naughtier than the basics? No, don't even get that far ahead of yourself Rick. Don't.

Pulling me back into the moment, and away from the future, Michonne groans my name again, softly into the warmth of our kiss, "Rick…"

For the briefest of moments, I'm petrified, stock still. Is she calling my name because she wants me to stop? Has she changed her mind? I promise to God, if she does I will, I would do anything for her. I'd somehow pull my shit together and remove my tongue from her mouth. My hand from her fat ass. Give her the respect and the space she's asking for. My dick might fall off from the pain of having been so close to getting something that I can't lie and say I don't want, but I would do it. For her. Anything for her.

It's always been that way for us. Ever since this crazy girl entered my life actually. If Chonnie asked me to do something for her, or get her something, it was hers, I would do it no questions asked. No matter how bad of an idea it might be. No matter how dangerous and ridiculous it might be. There was always just something about her that made me want to see a smile on her face, and for me to be the one to put it there. Rick, let me ride on the handlebars of your bike to the convenience store around the corner. I won't fall off. Ok, Chonnie, but I won't ride too fast just in case. Then she fell and skinned her knee. Rick, let me practice my cornrows on you. Sure thing, Chonnie, but what are cornrows? Then I looked like some N'Sync reject. Rick, taste this, I made it on my own! Smells funny, Chonnie, but alright. And then I threw up… Thinking now on our history together, why would this momentous request of me, be any different?

There is a clear certainty in my head right now, swirling amongst the lustful and lascivious thoughts gathered there, that knows, has always hoped, that this day would come. Hell, I'm sure lots of folks saw this day coming. Michonne and I may have never seen this iceberg ready to sink our platonic Titanic, but for some reason, this feels like it was always a simple matter of fate.

Perhaps that is why I have never wanted something more serious or permanent with another girl? Always preferred more casual relationships. Even my cousin Shane has wondered aloud numerous times why I never tried to really lock Lori down. Subconsciously, maybe, just maybe I was waiting on Michonne to feel about me the way I have always felt about her? This has to be the case, and explains why the moment I met that guy Mike, I wanted to rip off his head.

For a brief moment the thought of anyone who came before crosses my mind. Disgusted at allowing anyone else room in the space of this time with Michonne, I decide then and there that none of that matters now. Disposing of those negative thoughts, I pull my lips away from hers, carefully removing my eager hands from her body. Waiting.

"Rick? Why did you stop?"

"You called my name, I thought that's what you wanted?"

Dropping her eyes, almost bashfully, in a lowered voice, as she works on nervously twisting the hem of my t-shirt in her fingers, she answers, "I already told you what I want."

A slow, easy grin captures my lips, and I can't help it, but I feel proud. Excited. Like I've won the lottery, simply by hearing those words. That again, she chooses me.

"Alright, Chonnie, I got you, sweetheart." Dipping my head, and tilting hers to the side, I lower my kisses to her neck. Sucking and licking at the rapid beating of her pulse, I reach my right hand down to intertwine with her left. In doing so, I also inch my fingers around hers, and maneuver away not only any remaining thoughts of that other guy, but also the promise ring that he stupidly placed on her finger over Christmas break. Pushing it free from her finger, my smile grows even bigger, curving my lips as I close them over her pulse with the sound of the dull thud the ring makes against the floor at Michonne's feet. She either doesn't notice, or doesn't care. I hope it's the latter.

Satisfied, I relax, and deepen and my steady exploration of Michonne, until I sense her going for my open jeans again. Fumbling a little with the unzipped flap, and separating the waistband of my boxers from my skin, her fingers tickle against the hair on my abdomen, then dip further to filter her nails through my pubic hair. The graze of them, scratching lightly against my feverish skin, livens my nerves with the sensation of her taking liberties to become more comfortable with me. With this Rick. Not her friend Rick. Her lover.

"Mmm, Rick, is this ok? Is it ok if I touch you like this?"

My eyelids droop at the intensity of this newly introduced sensation. Oh my god. What the fuck is she doing to me? Her hand is in my underwear, her heated palm wrapping tightly around my cock, a strangling grasp that is sure to cause me to blow my load soon. Very soon if she keeps tugging and twisting her fist like that. Damn that shit feels good! Fuck! But wait…where did she learn that from?

Lifting my head from her throat and narrowing my eyes on her, I try to steady my breathing and wrest control of my senses back from her. "Ye-yeah, that's perfect. But, hey, let's um… let's go in the house, ok? This isn't the place for this…for you."

Smiling at me praising her efforts, she nervously licks at her full lips, "Ok, yeah."

"Rick! Are you ready? Can I come in yet?"

"Wait! Gimme just a few more minutes, ok?"

"Ok."

XXXX

Standing in the center of my bedroom, hearing Michonne's voice calling to me from the front room, my eyes bounce around, taking inventory of my work. Once I helped Michonne down from the tree house, I ushered her into my house. Seemingly a little hesitant at first, she stopped in the hallway, wondering where my mother and Jeff were. I guess I don't blame her. We've ducked into my bedroom together plenty of times before, but never ever for something like this. I get it. Attempting to calm her nerves, I fixed her a glass of water and had her wait in the living room for me to retrieve her. I just want to make this perfect for her. With my mother and Jeff in Boca with my grandmother, I assure her that we have the house to ourselves.

Rushing around I gather the black Diptyque candle my mother got on a trip she took to France with my aunt Tracy last year. She's going to kill me cause I know they are expensive, but I needed it to set the mood. Shrugging I try not to think about it, and instead enjoy the instant strength of the aroma of roses and black currant leaves wafting throughout the room. Everything has to be perfect I remind myself as I click the button on my iPod to begin the music to one of my favorite songs, Snow Patrol's 'Chasing Cars'. Straightening the covers on my bed, tossing clothes in the hamper, kicking shoes underneath my bed, I finally take a quick pause to stare at myself in the mirror, and soak in the levity of this moment as the song's words wash over me.

We'll do it all  
Everything  
On our own…

We don't need  
Anything  
Or anyone…

Eyes are a little red, that's to be expected, it's pretty late. Fingers dance against each other as my hands hang anxiously at my sides. My hair is too long, I think, as I push a few errant curls behind my ear and back over my head, away from my face. Does Michonne like it long? Should I cut it? My palm drags over my face, feeling the scratch of the bristles of my beard coming in across the inside of my hand. Lori hates facial hair. Briefly the thought crosses my mind that perhaps I should quickly try to shave it? Trailing on the tail of an errant thought of Lori, one that brings a deep frown to my lips, is uncertainty, causing me to think irrationally, and keeping me from moving ahead. Letting my head drop to my chest, the weight of what I'm about to do is hitting me.

Stewing in my own thoughts, trying to settle my feelings, I blow out a long breath. And then, just when I feel like I need something to take the edge off of what is about to happen, questioning myself, my motives, she's there. Wrapping her arms around my waist, I sense her laying her head on my back. Remaining still, neither of us moves. We just…breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Eventually our breaths synch, as though matching the very biological rhythm of who we are, together.

Grabbing a hold of one her hands that rests easily over my heart, I lift it to my lips and place a kiss to the center of her palm.

"You cleaned your room up, for me? Ooh you must be serious about me, Mr. Grimes!" She teases, and I can feel the mirth in the jiggle of her breasts on my back.

"This is a big deal!"

"I see that. Clean room, candles, and Snow Patrol! I feel very special cause I know you don't clean your room for nobody, Rick! Nobody. Shit, even when you brought Lori home, she cleaned your room for you while she was here. Gotta say, I'm flattered you went this far for little ole me."

At first I chuckle at what she's saying, because she's right. I hate cleaning my room. It feels pointless to make my bed when I know I'm gonna climb right back in it. But I also know Michonne, and she loves a clean room, and a freshly made bed. And like I said, for her, I'll do anything. Even clean my room. That part is funny. It makes me laugh at how wound up I am for her, which I guess is pretty evident at this point. But then she drops Lori's name, and like a brick shattering through a plate glass window, it's impact on breaking up my good mood is immediate. A tick in my jaw is set off. My teeth clench, and I can feel the jubilant smile that was there, simply fall.

Why would she bring her name up? Right now?

Turning to face her, leaning back against my dresser, I mentally dismiss thoughts of Lori, and I rub my hands up and down her arms, warming my palms against the heat of her skin. "I would do anything for you. You know that."

"I do."

"Come here." I pull her into me and kiss her again, softly, enjoying the taste of her, and the earnest thrust of her tongue, and her lips on mine. There's hunger in her movements, and her assertiveness has me desperate for her, keen to move us to the next step. With her body in between my legs, tightly held to me, I'm intent on getting to more of her. I roam my hands along the back of her short mini dress, finding a series of small buttons holding the dress closed. Shit! It's going to take all night for my fingers to maneuver all of those buttons.

No matter, I begin at the top, one by one, easing the buttons through the tiny holes, until I reach the bottom, right above her ass. As I'm pushing the light material over her shoulders and from her arms, then begin to struggle to get it down over her slim hips and round ass, Michonne pulls back from our kiss.

"Let me help you." Hurriedly, she pushes the dress off of her body, and even though I've seen her in a bikini hundreds of times, seeing her like this, in only a white bra and matching panties, sends my breathing into an erratic staccato beat of nervous excitement. The stark white, against her velvety dark skin is like something out of a movie. Of course the virgin, ready to be deflowered, is wearing white. Of course she is.

Taking my hand, Michonne's nerves of steel continue to guide us through this, and she leads me over to my bed. She's already kicked off her sneakers, her classic hi-top Chuck Taylor's that she is rarely seen without, and she's barefoot. Seating herself on the edge of my bed, I kneel in front of her. On my knees, in between her legs, I run my hands all over her, starting with her feet. Kneading my thumbs into the soles of her dainty feet, I smile a little, taking note that as usual her toes are painted different colors. A variety of red, blue, green, gold, and black painted toes rub against my palm, causing her to giggle. She's the most ticklish person I've ever met, and she's just about ready to squirm out of her skin even from the superficial simplicity of my fingers' massage.

"Oh god, Rick! You know that tickles!" She blurts, leaning back on her elbows. The airy lightness in her smile and laughter relaxes me, and has a similar effect on her. This is a serious thing we are about to do, and carries all of the mature levity of such an occasion, but it should also be fun. She should also feel carefree and easy going. I want her to be loose so that she can enjoy this, enjoy me, and what I'm planning to do to her. At least as much as she can given the circumstances.

"I'm not even trying to tickle you. You're just so sensitive."

"No, you're tickling me on purpose." She pouts, her pretty face scrunches up, and I swear it's the cutest thing I've ever seen. "And I'm not sensitive, I just have heightened awareness. Like a superhero."

"I think that's the same thing, but that's ok, Wonder Woman. Let's see how heightened your awareness really is." I offer, then begin a slow crawl of my lips, layering small kisses as I go, from her toes, her ankle, and up the inside of her silky leg, that once I reach the apex of her thighs, I place over my shoulder. Each kiss is met with a tiny twitch of her muscles, a parting of her full lips, a staggered huff of air escaping to evidence how aware she is of my attentions.

Michonne's reaction is egging me on, and though I want to be everything that she has ever hoped for, and fulfill whatever her expectations are of this moment together, I still have to be me. I'm bringing it down a little, but I still have to give her a little taste. A little tease.

My face is cushioned by the warmth of her thighs, firm with athletic muscle that she's earned from all those high kicks and herkies. Turning, I take a bite, a small one, not to hurt, to tantalize. To energize her arousal. Sinking my teeth into the plump flesh, I suck the skin against my tongue, pulling a little, applying just enough pressure until I hear a telling mewl of delight from her.

"Ahh! Dammit, Rick!" With her head thrown back, and her leg beginning to wobble in my hold, I release her, not wanting her to fall apart just yet. We've only just begun, there's so much more to come.

"You like that?"

Michonne only blows out a long, shaky, breath in response.

"Guess, I'll have to try something else then." I offer, quickly moving my face to rest at the juncture of her sex. Her scent is intoxicating, heady, a sweet musk that I never could have imagined. Not even in my wildest dreams. Emanating through the silky satin of her white panties, the perfumed fragrance of her pussy causes me to shove my whole face in between the outline of the fat lips, sticky and transparent, even shielded from my ravishment. Sucking in a long, hard, inhale of Michonne's womanhood, my nose and lips buried in her cleft, I decide that if I died right now, I would be happy. That's all there is to it. That thought sets my cock to hard steel, coupled with the ardent belief that on this night, and any others she will give me, I want to bathe in the scent of her, take my time and devour every bit of her. So I do.

I lean up and away, a movement that startles her so much that she whimpers and moans anxiously at my retreat, and reaches for me. Eager to keep me right where she wants me. Needy. She doesn't realize it, but that only feeds my passion to defile her even more. Instead of taking her hand, I take a hold of the hem of her panties, the ribboned trim around the waistband donned with a delicate bow right below the jewel in her little outie belly button, and pull them down her legs. Sweet innocence is what these pieces allude to. The color and trim giving off a sense of virginal innocence, the scent of her weeping petals, blooming, dripping with nectar, showing me she's ready to be deflowered of any pretense of purity. My girl Chonnie is gone now, the woman in front of me, the one whose panties I'm now holding in my tight fist, rubbing across my face as I fall under her intoxicating smell, as she squirms with impatient delight, legs wide open, is Michonne.

While I dispose of her panties, tossing them somewhere across the room, Michonne is removing her bra, delicately unclasping the front latch. Like an offering at my lustful altar, her large round breasts spill out of the cups. High, perky, the mounds remind me of scoops of my favorite chocolate ice cream, tipped with turgid morsels of sweet dark chocolate chips. God help me! She's too inexperienced to know that the wolfish growl that falls from my lips as I pounce on her, sucking each of her beautiful mounds greedily into my mouth, was completely unbidden by me. I've nearly lost control of my own faculties. Rick is now submerged behind the hungry man, ready to sate his fiendish appetite on her unsullied flesh.

Deep moans, cries really, erupt from her, caused by the sensation of my suckling lips on her breasts, and my exploring fingers, rubbing smoothly between her honeyed pussy lips, releasing her of any inhibitions that may still remain.

"Sweetheart, damn! You have the prettiest titties, Michonne." I sigh, heaving the words as my tongue flattens against her hard nipple.

"Rick…" she whines, her body held constricted in my covetous grasp. With one arm securely wrapped around her waist, holding her sexy body tightly to mine, and the other strumming a steady tune of seduction against her pearl, now throbbing and damp, I find myself in a fight against my own urges. Can I actually pull my lips away from these breasts, and kiss her lips, eat her fat pussy? Or should I continue to bury my face in her breasts and swaddle my own fervent desire right where I am?

The question is answered for me when Michonne's body begins to tighten. No longer fluid and loose, she's coming all over my fingers. I've hit the right notes, and like a finely wrought piece of gorgeous wood, crafted into the most exquisite of instruments, her voice rises in a passionate song of cries and pleas, interspersed with a hushed mumbling of my name.

Marveling at how truly responsive she is to my affections, I realize that she's fully ready now.

I carefully release her form, watching as she sinks into the mattress, a mass of satisfied pants, and heavy breaths. Even as I stand at the foot of the bed, the music still playing in the background, I can't drag my eyes from her as I hastily do away with my own clothes, twitchy with the anticipation of her heated skin against my own.

Tearing open the foil packet of a condom, and rolling it down over my thick cock, I try to steady myself. Not to rush. To savor. To appreciate, not devour. But as I stroke myself, a few tight pulls just to take the edge off, Michonne's eyes open, and the pools of dark amber set themselves on me, on the motion of my hands.

Toying nervously with her lips, biting at the corners with her teeth, Michonne maintains her focus on the movement of my hand. Up. Down. Licking at her lips she mumbles, "Rick, I don't… Is that gonna fit?" Panting, she doesn't seem embarrassed that I've caught her staring. No, instead she's staggered by my size, and our potential incompatibility. It's cute, and reminds that yes she is a woman, but she's inexperienced.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, you can take it."

Advancing on her, I gently push each of her legs aside, opening them wide to welcome me. Teetering over her, my hands pressed into the pillows on either side of her head, I witness the trust she has for me swimming in her eyes, even as it's mixed with a hint of trepidation and fear, and I can barely stop myself from consuming all of her right then.

Instead, I attempt to ease her, to soothe and relax her. Dropping my lips to hers, I kiss her gently, easily, my tongue sliding against hers. Dipping my head to the side I place a few pecks to her cheeks, then nuzzle into the sweet spot just above her collarbone.

"Is it ok if I- ahem, if I touch you too? I like the way you feel."

"Of course." Reaching for her shaky hand, I push it down onto my cock. Urging the stiffness in her fingers to release itself, I wrap my hand around hers, prompting her to grab the solid column of my cock like she did earlier. From there my sweetheart knows what to do, and she takes the reigns from me, finding her own rhythm as her fingers barely meet as she circles her small fist around me. My hips begin to jerk into her, delighting at the zing of pleasure caused by her touch.

"Just like that, sweetheart. That feels great…"

I begin to kiss her again, my head growing fuzzy as she continues to work my cock. Michonne pushes her body up close to mine, and with a certain finality steeling her she whispers, "I'm ready for you to fuck me, Rick. Please."

Damn! Why did she say it like that? Pulling my hips back, I have to stand back from her, balancing on my knees between her legs. There was something about the way she said that. Fuck I almost came right then, right in her hand like some 14-year-old boy.

Leaning up and tilting her head as though she's trying to make sense of my retreat, she rubs her fingers lightly over my chest. Just a wisp of the pads of her fingers tickles against the hair on my chest and abdomen. She follows the path of hair down to my cock again, now turgid, ready, flushing a hungry scarlet red.

With wide eyes, sexy and full of their own unsated desire, Michonne declares once more, as though I didn't already fall apart from her saying it before, "I'm ready, Rick."

Emotion clogs my throat, and stops me from confessing the stirring in my heart that dances right on the tip of my tongue.

I don't quite know  
How to say  
How I feel

Those three words  
Are said too much  
They're not enough…

Moving back in on her, before I take a hold of my cock in my fist, steadying my nerves, calming my racing heart, I lean down and steal a few licks of her pussy. The sticky tang of her laces my tongue, and sets fire to raging in my veins. Tunneling my tongue between her pussy lips, I inch closer to her hole, and take my time to lave and lick, adding to the already drenched arousal leaking from her in fat drops.

Feeling her fingers moving along my shoulders, grasping at my long hair, after a few more stabs of my tongue into her, I allow her to pull me up.

"Now you're ready to take all of me."

Nodding her head quickly, a dramatic signal of her assent, Michonne wraps her arms around my neck, and threads her fingers in my curls. Preparing herself to take me, she takes in a few deep breaths, and on the last one, after baptizing the rounded head of my sex through the petals of her flesh, I feel her tense again.

"Michonne, sweetheart, I'm going to be gentle."

"It's going to hurt. I know it is. Sasha told me it is. Shit, shit, shit! And you're fucking…huge!" Words leave her in a rapid fire blitz of anxiety.

"Hey, look at me. It's me, Rick. I'm gonna take care of you. You know that right?"

"Yeah… but-"

"But, it's gonna hurt. If you don't want to do this, it's ok." I offer, clamping my lips between my teeth, a fighting effort to stop myself from saying more. I've given her a last out. It's the right thing to do. It is. I can't let her do something she's not sure about. And if that thing she's unsure about is me? Then so be it. Damn, did I just say that? I mean, I meant it, but… damn! Dropping my head a little, I can feel disappoint rushing over me, repurposing my well meant chivalry. This is going to be over before it really got started, but yeah, if she doesn't want to…it's all good.

"No! Rick, I want you so bad right now." Pushing her heated frame against mine, her full breasts are crushing into my chest, and the sensation of them cushioning against my nipples is amazing. So amazing I have to simply close my eyes to control myself. Doesn't she know she's playing with fire? "I never thought we would ever be like this, together. But I'm happy we are." Pulling my head down to hers, she nibbles at my lips, soothing the stern, flat purse of them with her tongue. Rubbing her fingers through my hair, lightly grazing my scalp, I can feel myself relaxing in her hold. "Fuck me, Rick." She moans into my mouth, and well, that's all I need to hear.

Pulling my hips back, cock still in hand, I lean a little to the side, placing most of my weight on my forearm, and push, just a little at her opening. Glancing down between us I can see the fat lips of her womanhood welcome the head of my dick. Opening over me, the heat of her makes me unsteady with raging lust, and I remind myself not to rush. She's making it nearly impossible though as she pushes her pelvis up a little, as though she is trying to rush me, to get the pain over with as quick as possible.

But I'm sweating, burning a little hotter with each gentle prod that's met with a modicum of resistance. Fuck she's tight! The closer I get to pushing the head all the way in her hole, the more she moans, and for a moment I look up to her eyes, just to make sure she's still with me. She is. Her juicy bottom lip is nervously trapped by her teeth, but she's nodding at me, a silent plea for me to continue. And then I'm met with that final barrier of her virginity, and I know it's going to hurt her. I hate that.

Instead of just plunging in, pushing past the thin obstacle, I lay my body down on top of her, skin to skin, as close as I can. Attempting to take her mind off of what is happening, I want to see her smile, I need to see something more than the strained grimace twisting her lovely features right now.

Angling my lips over hers, using my free hand to frame her face and push her lengthy dreads away, I want to see her clearly, without obstruction, I latch my eyes to hers, hoping that my heart doesn't crumble everything between us when I confess everything.

"I love you, Chonnie. I always have."

"I know, Rick. You're my best friend. I love you too."

"Yeah I know, but, I love you…Michonne."

For the briefest speck of time, barely a moment, she's confused. Befuddled by the confession, and the deep passionate kiss I give her, just as I thrust my hips forward, and into her canal.

"Ahhh!"

"I know, sweetheart. I know…" A series of hushes rush from my lips to hers, an attempt to soothe her apparent distress. But, God help me…Michonne is so tight. The constriction of her around my cock is the most intense, binding pressure I've ever felt. And it's absolutely exquisite. The pleasurable throb of her untouched walls swallow me whole, close in around me as I dig in just a little deeper, inching with some minor ease against the taut rigidity of her walls due to the satiny feel of her juices bathing me.

Michonne is frozen beneath me, and at first I'm stricken, mortified that I have irreparably broken the most precious person in the world to me. I didn't realize that my eyes are seared closed, blocking me from her. When I do, and I open them, desperate to see her face, I almost want to die. Her eyes are closed as well, her long thick eyelashes dusting the very edge of her cheeks, heavy with the wetness of a few crystal clear tears.

They fall in a thin stream down the side of her face, and back towards her ears. The sight is impossible for me, and I'm frantic. Without thought, not knowing exactly what to do, I simply begin to kiss those tears away from her skin. An attempt to erase the pain that I've caused her.

Unexpectedly, as though she's insane, maybe even delirious, Michonne begins to laugh. Why is she laughing?

"You're laughing?"

Blowing out a long hard breath before she opens her eyes to me, she strengthens her hold on me and pulls me back to face her. "That shit hurt like hell!"

"Fuck! I'm so sor-"

"Don't apologize, Rick." Easing her hand down to my ass, she grabs a handful. "Finish what you started." Biting my bottom lip, a mischievous smile curls her sexy lips against mine. Wrapping her long legs around my waist, she pushes against me again with a wince, but still asserts that she wants me to continue. "I'm ok."

Though I'm certain that it pains her still, I begin to move. Slowly. Setting a leisurely pace, a gradual in and out, back and forth. I want her to get comfortable with me. I need her body to diminish its rigidity, cause I know it's a lot for her. I'm a lot for her. I want her to enjoy this as much as I am. Because I am. I hate to admit it, but shit, the feel of Michonne's curves pressed against me. The sensation of her pussy blossoming around my dick is…is…heavenly. An awe inspiring vibe that causes my dick to swell with every thrust deeper into her. Each time I sink further and further, falling more and more. To the depths of Michonne. More and more in love with with my best friend.

Michonne isn't wincing anymore, though she's scored my back with just a hint of painful scratches. I don't care. Now, she's stretched wide, allowed my length and girth to find a home inside of her. I've settled inside of this pussy and made it mine. Maybe she doesn't realize it yet. But every time that almost immobilizing zing of pleasure rips through me when I hit that spot, deep in the bottom of her womanhood. A place no one has ever, or will ever touch. I'm making her mine.

"Rick, Rick…"

Tingles, a passionate response to the slapping of my pelvis against hers, to the steady thrusting push up, up, up into her. A fervent expedition to that sweet spot in the depths of Michonne, where I'm sinking, submerged, drowning in the woman I love. "Sweetheart, you feel so damn good, babe! So good…" I mumble on a deep, husky growl. Truer words have never been spoken, though I know my mouth can barely intelligibly form the words against the blitz of ravishing bliss, rocketing from the heaviness of my balls, to burst a blinding rapture of cum into the condom that protects her womb from me. She didn't cum, but I can't fucking hold it any longer.

"Grrrrr…hrrrr…" is all I have left to offer her. That's it. I'm spent. Depleted. She has taken everything from me, and I was more than happy to turn it all over to her. No longer able to even hold my weight off of her as my orgasm's last few jolts wave through my body, urging my cock to dig and tunnel, to give her every little bit left, I settle on top of her. It's an electrocuting buzz that stiffens me to grab her whole frame, and enfold her underneath me. One hand squeezing, gripping the plumpness of her ass. The other nestling the back of her head in my palm.

Buried into the sweaty, sweetness of the graceful column of her neck, I've got my girl cradled under me. We are so close I can taste the salty sheen of sweat shimmering on her skin. Tiredly, with a weary thud to the bed, her legs release themselves of their constriction around my hips.

Blinking, almost completely zoned out, damn near ready to head off into the deepest sex fueled slumber, I can just barely hear Michonne's soft, voice. Somewhat strained and raspy from her screams and moans. "Well…damn…"

"Damn?"

"Damn."

Easing from inside of her, I ring my fingers around the condom to make sure I can properly dispose of it. Rolling to the side of her, I turn away from Michonne to remove it, tie it off and toss it into the wastebasket on the side of my night stand.

Heading back to her side, Michonne is laying in the same spot, legs still akimbo, one arm thrown over her eyes.

"So… is that a good damn, or a bad damn?" I query hesitantly, remembering that she didn't even get to climax. I'm still interested in what she thinks though, as my head rests on my upturned hand, and my elbow digs into the pillow at her side. Skimming my fingers over her body, over the glowing hints of candlelight hitting her skin, I gotta admit I'm a little nervous to find out what she thought.

"Uh, it's a damn that shit hurt, but I kinda enjoyed it, who knew Rick had a monster cock, kind of damn." She shrugs, her lips tilted with a little smirk. "I didn't expect that little surprise. But I'm sure you've heard that from all the girls you've been with."

Caught off guard by that last bit, the part that steals a little of my after sex glow, I draw back a little. My hand freezes, rests on her flat tummy. "Hey, don't do that. Don't…don't make this cheap."

"I'm not. I just know better than to be a fool and make this something that it wasn't."

"Hell, since you know everything, why don't you enlighten me then?"

"Come on, Rick, don't act all hurt and weird. You weren't even sure you wanted to be with me like this. I'm just saving the both of us from letting things get…what did you call it? Complicated."

"This isn't complicated to me. Not at all."

"Really? I can name two complications, easy." Holding up one finger and then another she answers, "Mike. Lori."

Damn. That hurts a little. Did she not hear me confess to her that I love her? Did she not realize what just happened between us? "Neither of those people matter to me. And neither of them are here right now. So why bring them up?"

Finally removing her arm from her eyes, she turns to me, sucking in a tight breath with what I assume is a stinging memory of our coupling. "Rick, I bring them up because I want us to be honest with each other. We have always had that. I don't want that to end because of sex."

"It won't."

"Ok. Good. I enjoyed what we did. I'm glad it was you and not Mike."

"Me too!" I chuckle, not really feeling any of the mirth behind the tight smile on my face. But I want to keep this light. I don't want to argue with Michonne. Jumping up from the bed, I head out of my bedroom, and return shortly with a jar of my mother's lavender bath salts.

Quirking one manicured brow, Michonne wonders at what I'm doing, gesturing her head towards me. "What's that for?"

Walking into the bathroom that's adjoined to my bedroom, I turn on the bathtub. Checking to ensure the water is hot, exactly like I know she likes it, I dump in a few shakes of the bath salts. For a moment I just sit there, allowing the calming aroma of the lavender misting up from the bathtub to soothe my agitated feelings. Doubts begin to take over the space where euphoria just recently resided, and I'm not going to lie, it's taking me a moment to get over the hurt of what Michonne said, and the possibility that this didn't mean near as much to her as it meant to me. The cold realization of that potential truth immobilizes me, prevents me from immediately returning to her. But then her voice breaks through the dark cloud of my thoughts, like the sun bursting through in bright beams of light.

"Rick! What are you doing?"

I still don't answer, afraid that my heart won't let me not plead my case, argue down any indictments she might levy my way. Any more names or charges of sleeping around she wants to level me with, when the only thing that matters to me right now is her.

"Rick?"

Standing, I decide to push my discomfort aside, and I walk with lazy strides back into my bedroom. Michonne is still laying where I left her. But now her face is no longer plastered with that smug smirk, or the knowing eyes that seemed to want to push my heart away and label this something more cavalier and casual than what we both know it be.

"Come on, sweetheart. I ran you a bath." Angling my body down towards hers, I anchor her body with one arm below her knees, and another at her back, then lift her to me. I catch a glimpse of her blood stained in tiny scarlet dots on my sheets. The same way she's stained my heart. Leaving behind her mark, a claim that cannot easily be washed away.

Instantly her arms are around my neck, and the scent of me and her clings to her, to me. It draws my attention. It's lingering all over the both of us, and god help me, it's the sweetest thing I've ever known. Her thighs are bruised with a tiny dark raspberry, just the hint of a splotch from where I suckled her flesh. She may have marked me, but perhaps, maybe I've marked her too?

Laying her head on my chest, she kisses my pecs a few times, and runs her fingers over my chest, teasing the hair found there. Easing her from my arms, and delicately placing this precious woman back to her feet in front of me, I gesture to the tub, offering it to her.

A brief glance is tossed over her shoulder at the tub, and she grins at the soft, damp aroma of steamy lavender blanketing the room. Dancing her fingers over my lips, now set in a flat, dissatisfied line. "You always take such good care of me, Rick. I love you dearly for that. You've never denied me a thing, and I want you to know, I will always do the same for you. Ok?"

"Hm."

"Don't hm me! I mean it." Shaking her head softly back and forth, as though she's trying to dismiss or shake lose something that doesn't want to be free, she pulls that bottom lip into her mouth again. Damn it, girl, don't do this to me. I have to shut my eyes for a second. Maybe she doesn't know that she's my dream girl. That even as inexperienced as she is, she is seducing me, arousal stiffening my cock again. Dropping her eyes to my groin, as though she somehow can sense its turgid reach for her, she grazes her fingers over me in a quick quiver, almost as soft and fluttery as if it never happened. "I heard what you said."

Straining to focus with her touch still light and feathery on my cock, I barely ease out a response. "What was that?"

"That you love me. That you love Michonne."

"Hm."

"Michonne loves you too, Rick. I think you know that. I think you've always known that."

Shaking my head, I dismiss her assumption, but feel a rush of excitement at her admission all the same.

"I just don't want this to ruin what we have always had. We can take our time, and…figure it out. Right? There's no need to rush into anything. Right?" she asks, leading me, drowning my senses in her as I bounce my gaze from how her lips move to crisply enunciate each word, to where she is now lazily stroking me in her palm.

Swallowing thickly, I mutter the only word I can form, the one I could most easily latch on to from what she just said. "Right."

"Good. Join me in the bath? Help me…ease the ache?" Fuck! Does she mean what I think she means? She's fucking with me, and I can't even think straight anymore. Fuck it, I don't even care. Without another thought, or even another word, I allow my girl to lead me in to the bathtub with her, where we proceed to try and…ease the ache.

XXXXX

"Hello?"

"Hey man, Daryl and I are going to the shooting range today, you wanna come?"

Groggy, head still a little foggy from all of the drinking I did last night, I press my cell to my ear and roll away from the glare of the morning sun coming through my bedroom windows, towards the corner where the side of my queen sized bed is pushed against the wall. Immediately my body comes up against the heated cushion of another person. Michonne. Facing the wall, and with just the top of her head poking out from under the covers, her long dreads are cloaking her face. She's sleeping heavily, evidenced by the tiny puffs of air trailing from her lips on the tail end of a soft snore. Curled up in a fetal position, with the bottoms of her cold feet pressed against my legs, I'm not even slightly surprised to find Michonne asleep in my bed with me.

Before I left for college, and most of the years before that, we used to have sleepovers in my room all the time. If it was storming, and especially if thunder was involved, I could almost set my watch by how quickly Michonne's slender frame would darken our doorstep, coming in with only one knock to alert us of her presence. On those dark nights, when straight line winds, and hail might accompany the eerie presence of a southern thunderstorm, ripping through the night sky, Michonne would ease into my bed, whether I was there or not. Like a gothic angel, she would suddenly appear, inching under the blankets with me to escape the rumbling clap and bang of god's fury, a light show among the clouds.

Just like then, I welcome her presence in bed with me, it's occurrence feeling oddly comforting and reminding me of the reminiscent feeling of being home. Strange how my brain constantly makes that connection with her.

Lifting the covers, I notice one thing that's different than normal. She's not wearing any clothes, which brings to mind what happened between us last night. That was different as well, and despite the fact that Shane is jabbering away in my ear through the phone, my focus is completely on the beautiful woman next to me.

My bedroom is still perfumed by the fragrance of our lovemaking, mixed with the smoky lilt of the expensive candle I nabbed from my mother's stash of candles in her bedroom. Even my skin still holds a sheen of our comingled sweat and essence, especially my groin and thighs, my cock and balls sticky and plastered to my thigh from bathing in her wetness. Which is interesting considering the bath we took. At least it's interesting until I remember what happened in the bath…and one more time after. The second time, when she allowed me the gift of her body, without a condom.

The bathtub was kind of a fluke as I had no intent on that happening. My goal was to only help make her more comfortable, give her a chance to soak away the soreness of losing her virginity. How was I to know that Michonne was going to want to try being on top? In the bathtub? I mean, for a woman that just lost her virginity, she was surprisingly eager to become fully acclimated with the practice of lovemaking. At least this time we both had the wherewithal for me to exit the bathtub and finish myself into my hand. No problem there.

That last time though? At 3 in the morning when I woke to find her lips lapping and nipping at mine, and my dick in her greedy hand. Yeah, I honestly and truly didn't plan on that time. I was dead tired, weary down to the bone after a long night trying to satisfy my girl, trying to get her that O. Also, I knew damn well I had used my one and only condom the first time we had sex, and was too tired to even consider finishing on my own this time. Since I wasn't home that often anymore, I hadn't kept a stash since high school. Hell I was lucky that I had that last one in my wallet. With things being so rocky with Lori these last few months, I haven't had much need for any condoms at all. Honestly, it didn't even cross my mind that last night would have resulted in a first, second, or even a third time. Shit, that only happened in my dreams!

In my defense though, I did tell Michonne that I didn't have anymore condoms, but all she did was lift those sexy brown eyes of hers to mine, tighten her hold on me, and tell me she trusted me to pull out, and cum wherever I wanted. Wherever. I. Wanted!? Fuck! As a guy who had never even had sex without a condom, well at least until last night, I didn't possess the willpower to 1) turn down raw sex with my dream girl and 2) to not fulfill one of my porn fantasies. I've never met a girl who would allow it, so… How could anyone blame me now?

Needless to say, while I did eventually pull out and get to witness my cum splashed messily over the wiry, dark hairs of Michonne's mound, and her lower belly…a truly erotic sight that made me a little dizzy, and she finally got a tiny O, I barely made it. Yeah, note to self, Rick, your pullout game is not stellar.

Pulling my attention back to the here and now, I'm perusing the smooth drape of her creamy dark skin, the curves and lines of her, and my fingers are itching to touch her yet again. To ride the waves, the peaks, to sink into her most intimate valley. Just once more. Last night I was able to finally touch her, taste her, her unexpected insatiability a decadent treat, pushing memories of our numerous times together to the front of my mind. Michonne had chosen me as the recipient of the most precious of gifts, and as she arches her back now, curving and bowing like the finest ebony wood, remembering all of the lessons my grandfather and father have given Jeff and I about woodworking, and the different types of wood, at this moment I am certain that it's not a coincidence that Michonne's decadent frame is reminiscent of one of the most expensive, and breathtaking of woods.

My heart rate increases, and blood rushes in a torrent to my cock, the stiffness awakening all of my senses. And then she moans. Simply the smallest of whimpers, causes such a large impactful assault on my psyche.

"Rick! Hey, man, you hear me?"

"Huh?"

"I said, Daryl got a new crossbow, and I got my pop's new rifle, so we can hit the range today. Calibrate the bow, and maybe go huntin' tomorrow. You're staying with your dad and grandpa right?"

"Uh…yeah. Yep. Gonna help them out at the store for the week. Just until I head back to school next Sunday."

"Alright. Well get your ass up. We'll see you at about 10?"

"Yep." I answer non-committedly, hanging up and already forgetting the promise to meet up with my cousin and friend, and instead try and spend some more time with Michonne. With the sheet still lifted, I toss my phone over my shoulder and place my palm flat against the rounded arch where her tiny waist and hips meet. God her skin is amazing. Is it wrong for me to become excited at the way my paler hand looks against her body? I hope not because outside of the fact that Michonne is my best friend in the world, her looks have not escaped me. It's one of the things that have always kept me so enthralled with her.

She would sometimes make off-hand, self-deprecating comments about herself or her features. That she was too dark to be outside sun bathing, even though it is one of her favorite things to do. Or that her lips were too full, nose too rounded, hair too kinky. I never understood where any of that was coming from when we were younger, because she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. But when I went away to college, got to know more folks, learned more about the world, I began to see what Michonne thought the world saw her as. And I couldn't disagree more. The things that she feels make her stand out as an outcast at her fancy private school, in our middle class mostly white neighborhood, in this world, are some of my favorite things about her. Not because they are unique, or exotic, or different, but because they belong to her.

Dragging my hand up and down her back, softly, not really wanting to wake her just yet, I'm in awe of the velvet like texture of her skin, and recall, with a wide grin to my lips how satisfying it was to feel all of it wrapped around me last night. Intense eagerness to experience that yet again, leads my lips to descend on the sweep of her spine, starting at the angles of her shoulder blades. And down. Down. Further, until her body begins to squirm and shift under my lips, now resting at the rising swell of her ass. Tempted to sink my teeth into her inviting flesh, just a nip of her, I'm halted as Michonne's fingers slink across my scalp, and gather a handful of my hair in her grasp.

"Rick? What are you doing?"

"Huh?"

"What are you doing back there? What time is it?"

"Uh… lemme check." Craning my head to check the clock on my night stand, I see that it's still fairly early. "8:30."

"Shit! I need to get home. You know I'm supposed to be leaving today for spring break with my parents. Damn it, I didn't mean to sleep so late." Her alarm at the late hour causes her to startle and scramble, her hand blowing and swiping her dreads from her pretty face.

I'm a little disappointed by her gingerly easing her frame from my bed, and hurriedly slipping her discarded dress over her body. Hiding its glory from my fascinated stare. I helplessly watch as she prepares to leave me. "When will you be back?" I ask, the strain in my voice sounding both a little desperate and eager. The itch of an apparent addiction to her creeping over my skin, causing me discomfort at the very thought of having to experience this immediate withdrawal from my new drug of choice.

Now fully dressed, she shoves her feet down into her Chuck's and grabs her purse. Leaning over me, palming each side of my face in her hands, she gifts me with a tender kiss. My fingers, animating all on their own, reach for her. Curling into her hips and ass, I drag her down on to my lap.

On a surprised screech, Michonne yelps into my mouth, barely breaking our kiss, "Rick! I have to go! I cannot cause my family to miss our plane. The docs will absolutely murder me."

"When will you be back?" I ask again, this time with my face shoved into the cleavage of the scoop neckline of her pretty dress.

"Next Monday."

"Damn, I'll be leaving to go back to school on Sunday."

"Hm. That's ok, we can still talk when I get back."

"Yeah, you're right. And, we need to talk. Settle some things."

"Yep…" She mumbles, and tries to jump up from my lap. I don't let her. Stiffening my arms tightly around her waist, I hold her down to me, and lick my tongue across the tops of her breasts, just to make her giggle one last time. Maybe even squeal my name in that little voice of hers. "Rick! Ok! When I get back we will talk."

"Alright." Dropping a last kiss to her temple, I release her, and watch as she bops with more energy than she should have, out of my bedroom door.

Cheerily I hear her deliver a quick, "Hey, Mrs. G! See you later!" to my mother, who I assume returned at some point after Michonne and I sequestered ourselves in my bedroom. Shit!

Within a few moments of Michonne's exit, my mother knocks on my door. "Rick, can I come in?"

Covering my nudity with my blankets before she comes in, I slightly raise my voice to tell her to come on in.

"Hey, Ma."

"Good morning to you too." Ambling into my room, she pauses for a moment and lets her gaze cruise around taking stock of things, looking for clues presumably. And to my chagrin, finding plenty. My mother's observant perusal leads her to the half burnt candle on my dresser. As she walks towards it, she steps on what appear to be a pair of white panties. Obviously not mine. Clearing her throat, preparing for her Sherlock Holmes moment, she turns back towards me, where I'm sheepishly trying to avoid eye contact with her, already knowing what to expect. "So, I just saw Chonnie leave. They are heading to Europe this morning right?"

"Yep."

"And, she spent the night here I assume?" She asks, her eyes bouncing knowingly from mine to the panties lying crumpled at her feet.

"Yep."

"I suppose that's not odd at all. She's been doing that on and off since we moved here, hasn't she?"

"Yep."

"Sweet girl that Chonnie. But what might be odd is that for some reason she seems to have left her undergarments here." My mother directs her red polished nail down towards where Michonne's panties lie.

Rubbing my hand nervously across the back of my neck, and wincing at the sting of fresh scratches on my back grazing my headboard, I attempt to explain. "Uh… I didn't expect you home so soon. I thought you and Jeff were staying with Grandma until Monday."

"I think your grandmother and I can only spend so much time together anymore. It's difficult like that sometimes with parents and grown children."

"Mom-"

"You don't have to tell me what's going on with you two, Rick. I suspect I already understand that something has changed, and I can't say that I'm completely surprised. Your father always said that when you were ready you would put a claim on that girl. Guess it just took a little longer than we all expected. Especially after you've been bringing that Lori around for so many years."

Not exactly sure how to answer my mother, or where to even begin, I only confirm to her what Michonne and I have yet to fully admit to ourselves or to each other. "Yeah, Mom, you're right. Between Michonne and I…everything has changed. This is…different."

"Ok then. I will leave you with these few words cause I know it's uncomfortable to have this conversation with your mother, but I have to put it out there." Looking at me over the lenses of her black plastic framed glasses, her eyes a sea foam green, she levels me, makes me feel 12 again with her all knowing mom stare. Tapping each of her fingers to illustrate her points, my mother counts off her pieces of advice. "1) If you didn't buy it, it's not yours. I'm sure Chonnie appreciated you trying to be romantic with the candles, but next time, get your own! 2) Be careful with each other. 3) Try to keep the 'noises' to a minimum. Your poor brother's crush on Chonnie has probably grown tenfold after what he probably heard last night. 4) Don't fuck this up! And lastly, 5) Get rid of that Lori." With that last point she directs her index finger my way, then spins on her mint green gardening Crocs, and politely closes my door behind her leaving me with time to think over her pearls of wisdom.

I don't need to think long though. Rising from the bed I search the floor to locate my discarded phone. Finding it quickly on a pile of socks, I dash my thumbs across the screen, eager to set some things right. The first text I send is to Michonne. I'm not sure what the rules are from here on out, but like I told my mother, between Michonne and I? Everything has changed. And whether or not we have had a chance to sit down and discuss it, I know in my heart that this is my chance to get everything I've always wanted.

Thinking it over a minute I know that I don't want to scare her with the strength of my feelings for her, feelings she never even knew existed beyond our platonic friendship. But I also know how I feel. Like the world is new, shiny and filled with possibilities for our future. So I type out the words, and quickly hit send before I change my mind.

Rick: Hey…just wanted to say have a safe trip. And I love you

Michonne: Rick :) !

I laugh at her response, as I can almost hear her high pitched giggling into her hand that she does when she's embarrassed.

The next text I send is to Lori, and it's just as direct, but more ominous.

Rick: we need to talk

Lori: …

Satisfied that I had begun on a path to set things straight, I bend down and pick up Michonne's panties. The scent of her still pungent and delicious in them. I take a deep whiff of them, pressing them to my nose, feeling them enliven me with new purpose.


	3. Chapter 3 - Michonne

Chapter 3 – Michonne

"Michonne! Michonne!"

"Mike?"

"Hey! I'm so glad I caught up with you before your flight left. I wanted to see you and tell you I'm sorry."

"Wha-"

"Hello, Michael." My father greets Mike as he finishes grabbing the last of our suitcases from the trunk of my Uncle Joseph's Cadillac Escalade. With a welcoming smile, he's offering him his hand. Mike grips it, then my father heartily slaps him on the back.

My dad likes Mike. He has since I brought him home the first time he asked me out on a date. I told him that I'd never been on a date before, but that he would have to get through my parents if I was ever going to actually go on one. And he did. Never even hesitated. He showed up on my doorstep on a brisk, Saturday afternoon in October to take me to a movie. Dressed in blue jeans, and a dark red Polo sweater, he was met at the front door by my mother as he offered her flowers, a bouquet of salmon pink tea roses. Her sorority's flower. Of course that warmed her to him immediately, and with a soft, kind smile, one that showed her bright white teeth, the same one often found on my mother's beautiful face, she welcomed him into our home.

Not one to say too much, my mother is the shy, quiet one of my parents, the pair of doctors, affectionately known between Glenn and I as "the docs". My mother once wanted to be a dancer, and her movements still carry that marker of gracefulness. But, when she hit puberty, much like me, her body filled out in a way that made it difficult for her instructors to still see the sophisticated swan in the way she carried her newfound womanhood. She's told me this story many times, usually as a way to encourage me to pursue my dreams, even when obstacles present themselves. The dancer who used her body movements as a form of art is still in her, evident in the way she moves. The length of her stride, the delicate prance of her step. Her body is still so full of music, that you can almost hear it when you watch her.

Add to that, the picture of a woman of average height, and dramatic beauty, and the picture is of what I consider to be the prettiest woman I've ever seen. Her hair is cropped short, a crown of tight coils, sprinkled through with grey. With sculpted, high cheek bones, full lips like my own, skin that glows the same rich color as a coffee bean, and large round eyes of the same shade, she's simply gorgeous. Not in an intimidating or false way either. It's a mother earth vibe that radiates from her energy. When I draw pictures of her, it's always with the intent to convey the warmth emanating from her. It's in the way she will always follow her smile with a touch, one that always reaches her eyes, with a gentle pat of her delicate fingers on your arm. It's all very reminiscent of romantic, southern charm and gentility.

With her you're always safe. It's what her patients like about her. Her calming spirit. It's what Glenn says about her when he gushes on why he loves and adores his Umma so much, affectionately using the Korean phrase for mom for her. He doesn't remember his biological mother, and as he has divulged to me many times, our mother, Vivian Anderson, is as in his blood as Hyun-Ae Rhee still is. My father simply thinks it's because he spent the whole first year of his life strapped lovingly to her chest in a carrier all the time, but I think it's all just saying the same thing. My mother is…pretty awesome.

My father on the other hand, a self professed "Bama" who stands at a hulking six feet and four inches, with huge hands that were once used for throwing touchdowns, and are now for saving lives, is much different. Sporting a similar dark roast coloring as my mother, and also a doctor, that's where the similarities end between the pair who have been married for twenty years, and together for just as many, having gotten married only one month after meeting. Raymond Anderson is a man's man, who everyone loves. It's impossible not to once you get past his intimidating stature, and become introduced the lightness of his charm. Gregarious, and full of laughter and charisma, he normally keeps his long dreadlocks pulled back, and his beard, greying quicker than his thick hair, cut low. But it's his piercing eyes, tilted a bit at the corners, that give off the appearance of a hawk or an eagle. And that's kind of how he is underneath all of those big smiles, and that booming voice, always watchful, assessing, keeping his eye on everyone and everything. I suppose that goes well with his nosey nature, and his need to always be in the know, and in control of his surroundings.

Together they are a formidable team of doctors, and the best parents in the world. Loving and caring, they are fiercely protective of those in their world, but have no problem welcoming others with open arms. And that's what they did with Mike.

As the son of Georgia's only black senator, he knew exactly how to win them over with his kind smile, eloquent words, and overall charm. All of the same things that I found so wonderful about him, my parents seemed to like as well, with the addition on my end being that he's ridiculously handsome.

"Doctor Anderson." He nods at my father and accepts his handshake as he switches what appears to be a book of some kind, from his right hand to his left.

Standing next to me, a frown dipping his features as he watches Mike make nice with my parents and uncle, Glenn blurts seemingly out of nowhere "What are you doing here?" A short giggle erupts from me as a blatant look of embarrassment crosses my father's face, and curves my mother's lips into a smile that accompanies a questioning side eye to her son. "Not to be rude, but this is the airport, dude. We're leaving…?"

"Glenn, hey buddy, yeah I know that." Mike laughs, and grins down at my brother. "I just wanted to see my girl before she left, wish her a good time."

"Didn't you do that last night?" Glenn wonders aloud, "I mean, you literally just saw her. Overkill much?"

Rubbing her hand over my brother's head, and ruffling his short black hair, my mother redirects Glenn, knowing that his hackles are up. He's no fan of Mike's. "Glenn, why don't you help your father get a cart for all of this luggage? Let's give Michonne and Mike some privacy to say goodbye."

"Thanks, Mom." I mumble, watching as Glenn obeys my mother's suggestion. My family animates like a well organized team, hustling the bags curbside, and getting them all pushed away into the airport terminal. The only thing left is my small roller bag, my purse slung across my body, and Mike.

His eyes are on mine, lovingly caressing my face in the silence between us that is buffered by the hustle and bustle of travelers, arriving to greet loved ones. Tearfully saying goodbye to others.

Finally reaching out to touch me, Mike takes a gentle hold of my chin with his index finger and thumb. Leaning in, his body is angled down towards mine, and he places the softest kiss to my cheek, the bristles of his mustache lightly scratching my skin. "Mimi, I'm sorry."

"Mike..." I eek out, my voice low and soft, seemingly dampened under the sincerity of his apology. His follow-up kiss to the corner of my lips, and the delicate way he's cupping the side of my face with his warm palm, throws me off a little.

"I would never hurt you intentionally. I was frustrated, and hurt that it felt like you were rejecting me." Dropping his head, as though the weight of his shame is holding him down, he takes both of my hands in his. "I panicked, and it was immature, and hurtful to you… and I hope you can forgive me. I will do anything for you to forgive me."

"I forgive you. It just… you were too rough with me."

"Jesus, Mimi, oh my god!" Mike closes his eyes, the thought of my admission seems to punish him. Holding my face, framing it in both hands, his touch tentative, halting, he swallows a harsh breath. "I love you so much, and you didn't deserve that."

"No, I didn't." finding the strength to hold my words steady and firm, I assert myself. "And I didn't like it. I won't let you treat me like…like I don't have feelings, and desires, and needs. I do."

"I know…"

A deep voice breaks into our conversation, a welcome interruption for my part. "Michonne, honey, it's time for us to go. Tell Michael goodbye." My father says from the sliding glass doors that will lead me away from Georgia, and away from Mike.

Looking up to him from the black Chuck Taylor's on my feet, I remind Mike that time is up. "You heard my dad, I gotta go."

"I know. Um… I brought you this." Holding out the book that is in his hand, I realize as he's pressing it into my palm, that it's actually a moleskin journal. It's beautiful. It has a black and gold Parisian mosaic pattern on the cover, my initials inscribed in bold calligraphy across the right corner, and a package of my favorite Sakura Pigmon Micron pens held to it with with a black satin bow. I'm speechless. "I wanted you to be able to keep a record of your adventures in Europe. Everything you see, hear, taste, touch."

My mouth is hanging open. I can't help it. This is…this is an amazing gift, and the only way anyone would ever know how much this gift is perfect for me would be if they listen to all of my ramblings, comments, and oft hand mentions of things here and there. "You've been listening to me."

"I hear and remember everything you say. I record everything about you. Keep it all right here." He taps his temple, and smiles, a sad, regretful one that does no justice to his beautiful face.

"I don't know why you want me to write down all of this stuff, Mike, you've been to Europe before."

"I know, but… I love to rediscover the world through your eyes, Mimi. You have a light in you, I just want a piece of it for myself, ya know?"

"Michonne." My father calls me again, his tone now impatient, not leaving room for me to dally any longer, no argument allowed.

"I'm sorry, sir, I've kept her too long." Dropping a tiny kiss to my left hand, he seems to stop in his tracks. Staring for a moment, he sniffs, frowns, then replaces it with another weak smile. Clearing his throat, seemingly scrambling to recover, he drops my hand. "Have a safe trip. Please call me when you return, Mimi. I'll be waiting for you."

As quickly as he was here, seemingly out of nowhere, he's gone. A few of his long legged strides carries him to the first cab he sees, his tall form disappearing inside.

I'm too stunned by everything that just happened to move as quickly as my father would like, and I instantly feel his firm touch on my shoulder. Wrapping his arm around me, my father, my most favorite guy in the whole world, must sense something warring inside of me. My emotions a ragged mess.

"Do I need to kick his ass about my baby girl?"

"Huh? No, Dad! No…"

"Ok, just asking. I may be a doctor, but I know how to kick ass. I used to play football ya know."

"Yeah, Dad, I know."

"And I will. I'd do anything for my baby girl. You know that right?"

"Yep."

"Just checking. I only say something because I noticed that you didn't come in until very early this morning and that's not like you."

Putting my hands up, waving them to protest his assumption, I quickly answer. "I wasn't with Mike all night, Dad. I promise."

"So where were you? And before you give me an earful about you being an adult now and your mother and I needing to respect that, I just want to remind you that the only people in our home who can stay out all night partying are named Vivian and Raymond. So, again…?"

Sighing heavily, feeling the weight of his arm symbolically growing heavier on my shoulders, I close my eyes and tell him the truth. At least what I can tell him without withering under the embarrassment of having that kind of conversation with my father.

"I was over Rick's. I had him pick me up from Mike's and we hung out all night."

"Ah, young Mr. Grimes strikes again. I should have known. There was a time when your mother and I thought you guys would outgrow your friendship. I guess you did there for a little while with him hounding behind every skirt he could get up under." My father chuckles, his amusement rumbling deeply in his chest as he laughs. Though his smile is wide at the thought of Rick chasing after random girls, mine is not. Maybe sensing the stiffness that overcame my body at the thought, and that I'm not joining in the laughter, my father stops us where we stand. "Hey, baby girl, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." I grouse on a weak shrug of my shoulders, not really ready to explain the swirl of emotions blowing through my heart.

"Ya know what? Your mama and I know what it is, Chonnie. We've always really known, I think we all have, including Dana and Rick Sr. We only thought you guys might outgrow just being friends, because we figured that eventually it would become something else. You weren't making him the star of all of those comics you were writing for nothing."

"What? You did?" eyes growing wide with surprise, I can't believe what I'm hearing. I guess they were paying attention to all of those stories I wrote and comics I illustrated. Yeah, I suppose it wasn't really that difficult to figure that the lead in my cowboy comic I wrote was Rick. His name was Mick after all. Gotta work on my originality, I promise as I recall the comic book I wrote about a cowboy, with a female side kick who worked his way as a mercenary through the wild west, solving crimes, and punishing bad guys. I suppose that's the way I've always seen Rick, as the star of even my imagination.

"Yeah. When Rick Sr. and Dana broke up a couple years back, that boy took it bad, real bad. The first person he ran to was you."

Pushing my locs back over my shoulder, and pulling them into a ponytail, I'm sifting through my father's recollection, pulling into my brain its truth. "That's cause we're right next door though."

"No, that's cause you're his person. Have been since you tried to permanently put a crook in that nose of his." He smiles, the memory of that day seemingly clear in everyone's mind as the start of something between Rick and I. "If I remember correctly that fall he broke his ankle playing football, you were the only one he let sign his cast, filling it with your pictures and illustrations. You're the only one he ever let drive that antique pickup truck his granddaddy gave him, and he's the only one who will taste your cooking and not tell you honestly how awful it is. That's love, little girl. Even I hate to let your mama, the love of my life drive my new Mercedes. And I don't know if I could have wifed a woman who can't cook." Scratching at his beard, he seems to be giving his own ruminations some serious thought, but shaking his head to himself, I suppose he agrees with himself and dismisses the audacity of a wife who would are have other talents than being his cook. Men.

"Dad, of course we love each other. We've only known each other for most of our lives."

"Do you remember how that boy avoided you like the plague after we came back from Hawaii? Turning bright as a beet every time he saw you bouncing around? Sr. called it then, said he was in love with my little Chonnie, but I didn't believe him just yet. I didn't want to, cause even though I love them Grimes boys like my own, I wasn't entirely thrilled with the prospect then. And I didn't accept it as the God's honest truth until he was ready to rip Mike a whole new asshole at Christmas when he gave you that ring. Remember that?"

Admitting that Rick's response that night did confuse me, I nod my head in agreement. "Yeah."

"You don't know men yet, little girl, not really. But that's not how a friend reacts. That's how a man responds to another man trying to take what's his."

"But, I'm not his."

"Tell Rick that. Boy was swelling up, huffing and puffing like he was gonna do something foolish up in my house. Like I said, I love him, but I'm the only one allowed to throw fists at 30 Northwood Avenue." Quirking an eyebrow at me, he's serious, but he's also making light of something that seemed pretty serious when it happened. I remember the way that Rick scoffed at the ring Mike gave me, his scowl palpable enough to cause thick tension in the room of family members and friends. "I'm just saying, you need to pay more attention, Chonnie. Rick isn't Ricky anymore, and you're not gonna be Chonnie much longer. It's an inevitability that I can't say I'm entirely comfortable with, but I know you can't fight something so obvious. I just hope that you be careful. I'm not ready to be a granddaddy. You hear me? And you tell Rick that too!"

"Dad! Oh my god!"

"I'm trying to be progressive here, Chonnie, damn. Your mama has been trying to get me to loosen up and see things for what they are, not what I think they should be. I would prefer that you remain untouched by any man until you're married, or I'm dead, but I don't think that's gonna happen. You're a woman now, just as beautiful as your mama, and you better believe that both Mike and Rick see that."

"I don't wanna talk about this anymore, Dad."

"I don't either, but as you kids say, whateva!" he tosses up his large mitt like hands, thumbs touching to make the shape of a W. "Long as you know, that we know there's something there. Maybe it's a little love triangle? I don't know. I just don't want you to get hurt. Ok?"

"Ok."

"Good! Now let's get this show on the road. I gotta get back to the ticket counter before your mother blows all our money on upgrading us all to first class!"

XXXXXX

"Why are you walking so slow?"

"What?"

"Come on, Chonnie! Stop looking at your phone and let's go! Mom and Dad will be pissed if we miss our flight. Moseying slow and wide legged like you just rode a horse or something."

Startled a little by how close his assessment kind of sounds, I shush him through what I'm sure is deep blush to my cheeks, and pop him in the head. I don't need him calling attention to me from our parents. "Hush, Glenn! I'm coming."

"That's what she said!" my little brother snickers, looking over his shoulder at me trailing behind him as I drag my rolling suitcase with one hand and stare at Rick's text message on my phone screen with the other.

"Ew!" I mumble under my breath at the thought of my little brother, only 15 years old, doing any of things that Rick and I did last night.

Reminiscing on our time together, I wince a little at the raw feeling of my sex, still a little tender, and the ache in my thighs. Still, I can't help but to grin at how wanton, and full of lust I was for him. His body seemingly created to give pleasure, leanly muscled, hard in all of the right places, dusted with just the right amount mix of golden and chestnut colored hair. How gentle his lips were, suckling at my breasts, my neck, my pussy. His touch firm when necessary, but more aggressive when needed.

Careful and respectful, yet sexy all the same, Rick somehow anticipated everything I would need to make last night the most memorable of my life. From the candles and music, to the bath, and the patient way he handled breaching my core, attempting to make his loving invasion less painful than it promised to be. It was a whimsical experience. Not just because I lost my virginity. Not just because I kind of enjoyed it, the pain and the pleasure along with the surprise that my handsome best friend is endowed like a horse. But mostly because of who I lost it to. I wasn't lying when I told Rick that I never thought he and I would be together like that. Never. Even as I harbored a pretty relentless crush on him in my early teens. Especially not as I watched him with the many girls who have come in and out of his life, each one probably assuming she would be the one to tame him. Never.

I'm glancing down at my phone for what's probably the hundredth time, eyes dancing over his words he's offered me not once, but twice now…

Rick: Hey…just wanted to say have a safe trip. And I love you

I love you.

My head is throbbing from lack of sleep. My heart is racing, it's beat a staggered and confused cadence, not smooth and certain like it usually is. My emotions are raw; I'm nursing my ragged feelings, freshly pummeled by this aggravating back and forth. They are agitated and all over the place. Mike. Rick. It's like going from a light rain, to a full on thunderstorm, and I'm ill prepared to get through it, especially with my dislike of thunderstorms. My inclination during the darkness of a storm is to always find safety and shelter with my friend, Rick, but how could I turn to him to understand and make sense of it all, when he's the cause of my indecision. I've never been a position to have to choose. How can I?

Meandering through the busy airport in my sweats, prepared to try and be comfortable on our long flight abroad, my feet conduct a slow shuffle forward. Not paying attention, still studying Rick's words on my phone, perhaps hoping to find the answer to my conundrum in their brief declaration, I suddenly find myself bumping into my little brother. Standing in front of me, blocking me from going further, he's glancing down between me and my phone.

"You and Rick texting, huh? Or is it that asshat Mike? Can't he just leave you alone, damn he just saw you like five minutes ago."

Sucking my teeth in exasperation, I glare at Glenn, tilting my head as I narrow my eyes on him. "Why are you so nosey, Glenn?"

Turning his red Atlanta Braves ball cap backwards, he scoffs in that newly deep, adolescent voice of his at my accusation. "I'm not nosey, I'm just curious."

"Nosey."

"Whatever."

"Why don't you like Mike? Hm? He never did anything to you."

"He's just…too slick ya know? Fake. Like nobody is that perfect. Always smiling, and kissing up to the docs. Mom and Dad act like he can do no wrong, and you're always making goofy puppy eyes at him. It's ridiculous."

Shaking my head, I deny his accusation, even if I kind of know better. Mike is pretty, how could I not make puppy eyes at him? "I don't do that."

"Yeah you do. Rick mentioned it too at Christmas. He hates that guy."

"I know. Don't remind me. Rick is not a fan." I mumble under my breath, an uneasiness rumbling in my belly, reminding me of the predicament I've placed myself in. On one hand Mike is…everything I've always wanted. And Glenn is right, he's almost perfect, unrealistically so. But now, he's messed up, and that kind of makes him more human to me. More fallible? More normal than his carefully curated persona would lead others to believe. And he did apologize. I gotta admit, his overture to come all the way to the airport with such a thoughtful gift really seems to show how earnestly sorry he is for how things went down between us last night. Maybe it was really just a mistake?

Then there's Rick… and what we've done. How can I forget that? How could I ever ignore the fulfillment of one of my heart's deepest desires? Rick is the man I have always wanted. And now, I've had him, and he is absolutely everything I always imagined he would be. And a lot more.

"That's cause he can see through him too."

"Maybe." Bristling a little at the idea, I also know that while Rick may seem so astute at finding flaws with Mike, he seems completely oblivious to Lori's. And that right there? That gives me pause. "He doesn't seem to be able to figure that out about Lori though." My voice carrying more bite and snark than I intended as I mentally add a hash in Rick's cons column. Red check mark for you there, buddy.

"Hey, I heard he's home cause he was breaking up with her. She went one way and he went another for spring break. Then Jeff texted me this morning and said he had another chick in his room last night, wearing her out! But then he heard him on the phone with Lori just this morning! Rick has always been good with the women, man."

Bucking my eyes wide, I can't believe that Jeff and Glenn know so much about everything. Those two gossip more than any girl I've ever known. "Jeff told you that? Did he say who the girl he was with last night was?" I ask, nervously fidgeting with my phone and not making eye contact with my little brother. Rick was talking to Lori after I left?

"Huh? No, he didn't say who she was. Just that it sounded like Rick had her climbing the walls!"

"Hm. You and Jeff are so nosey."

"Not nosey. Girls are nosey. Boys are curious."

"That's sexist, and untrue. You're both nosey, and you gossip too much. I should tell Mom." I threaten, moving my roller bag up closer to me to find a seat. Trying to dismiss the part about him being on the phone with Lori, I add, "You guys shouldn't worry so hard about who Rick was with last night. If he wanted you to know he would tell you. And who cares about Lori anyway?"

"True. Seems like no one likes Lori."

"Right. Mrs. G doesn't even like her. Who knows how Rick feels about her." I inch my shoulders up, still trying to convince Glenn as I unsuccessfully attempt to do the same for myself about her too.

"He would probably tell you how he feels about her though. The real question is, did you tell him that you were with Mike last night? All night?"

"What? Why would I tell him that?"

Stopping to drop down into one of the cushioned blue chairs in the middle of a row to the right of the gate where our parents are chatting it up with another couple, Glenn props his legs up on to his small carry on bag. "I didn't say anything to the docs, but I know you didn't come in from your date with Mike until early this morning. Dad would murder you, so I got your back, but yeah…" Taking a long swig from his bottled water, he focuses his eyes on me, and raises his brows, communicating that he knows something that will remain between us. Glenn may not be my father's son biologically, but he is every bit as nosey and as good of a secret keeper as our father. Either way, he's got my back.

It has always been that way with Glenn and I. He is my little brother, but he has big brother instincts. He'd better never hear anyone talk bad about me or anyone in our family. He easily earned himself a black eye once when he got in a fight with a kid two years older and fifty pounds heavier, who said I had a fat ass.

I'm the same with him. Being the Korean-American son of a black family in the south isn't easy, and he has been picked on many times. From kids questioning why he's with us and where his real parents are, to adults making their snide, micro-aggressive comments about how diverse our family is, Glenn has had to deal with a lot in his short 15 years. And some of that is just par for the course. But, I have a soft spot for Glenn having to maneuver through the obstacles of a life that has already been rough on him. I don't tolerate it very well. I have beaten up my share of kids who would seek to make my little brother feel some kind of way about who he is, and where life has placed him. I won't have it.

Glenn is trustworthy though, and has kept close to the vest, probably sweating to death under the pressure of the secret fact that I had a pretty serious crush on Rick a few years back. That I had allowed Mike to come over for a swim one evening when our parents weren't home. That one weekend when I was supposed to be spending the night at Sasha's, that I was really in Huntsville, Alabama with Sasha visiting her big brother Tyreese for homecoming, who is in college at my parents' alma mater, Alabama A&M. For that reason, I don't doubt that he will hold this secret, that's not really a secret, as well.

"Well…thanks for not telling them, but Dad already knows I was out all night." I mumble, bursting Glenn's bubble and placing my ear buds in.

Clicking on Amerie's 'Why Don't We Fall in Love' from the playlist Rick put together for me last summer when I first got my car and needed some good songs to ride around to, I allow my head to drop onto the back of my seat and close my eyes. Shutting out the world. Sometimes I do that. Just take off, ride around, listening to music, thinking, alone with my thoughts. It's a habit I picked up from Rick. He would often disappear for hours after his parents divorced. Sometimes he would invite me, and we would just exist together, coursing our way over Georgia's scenic back roads. The landscape's colorful foliage, and skyward reaching trees gifting us with the perfect escape among nature's beauty. No words needed. The silence communicating everything in what's not said.

There I go, my thoughts circling back to Rick and how intertwined our lives have always been. He's on my mind so heavy that I almost confess to Glenn that I wasn't with Mike, but all that would do is send him sniffing around to figure out who I was with, and I don't need Glenn asking questions. It's not that I'm ashamed of being with Rick, it's just that… Like Glenn said, he has a reputation. He's popular, he's a ladies' man. He's been with lots of girls. I don't want Glenn to feel some kind of way about Rick, and maybe worse yet, that I'm just another notch on Rick's belt. A thought that I'm having a little myself. Another red check in that cons column. Damn.

"So many things I'm goin' through  
So much that I wanna do  
It startin' to become so clear to me  
Tomorrow ain't really what it seems…"

It's not like I'm Rick's girlfriend now, because he has a girlfriend. Lori. It's not like he's my boyfriend either, because well…I have a boyfriend. Mike. A boyfriend that until last night I loved, that I was pretty serious about. Serious enough that I did want him to be my first. Why should I question that love now? Don't I still want to be with him I wonder, remembering the feeling of giddiness I have always had when I'm with him. When he's cracking jokes, and telling me how pretty I am. How smart I am. How much he loves me. I'm wearing his ring aren't I?

Or maybe I'm not. Checking my left hand to admire the pretty ring that Mike placed on my finger as a symbol of his promise to me, I find that it's missing. Missing? Is that what threw Mike off when he kissed my hand? The fact that his promise ring seems to have tellingly vanished from my finger rips a slight panic through me, gripping my chest as I dig around in my purse, frantically searching for the ring. Maybe I took it off to wash my hands and left it in my bathroom? I was in a rush to get showered and dressed once I snuck into the house after leaving Rick's. Rick.

Rolling my eyes, and dropping my forearm over my forehead, I recall the push of his hands, nimbly twisting and the shoving the delicate metal to the ground and away from me. Why would he do that? Why didn't I care when he did I question to myself, countering my own consideration of Rick's motivations? Instantly, I reach for my cellphone and quickly my fingers fly over the screen, punching out a text to him.

Michonne: Did I leave my ring over there?

Rick: Yes

Michonne: Can you put it somewhere safe for me until I return?

Rick: Why?

Michonne: B'cuz

Rick: Cuz what?

Michonne: ...

Rick: You don't need it anymore

Michonne: Um why don't I?

Rick: Why would my girl need another guy's ring on her finger?

Michonne: Your girl?

Rick: My girl. You feeling ok? Get some rest on the plane. Love you.

Well damn.

"So many days I've thought of you  
It's about time you knew the truth  
Got to act quickly, you and I  
We fall in love, so many reasons why…"

Feeling a nudge at my shoulder, I look to my left, and see my little brother staring at me with a confused furrow to his brow. Moving his lips, I can't hear him over the music blaring in my ears. He pulls the bud from my ear and the music dims, only pumping in one ear, the sound uneven.

"Why are you smiling like that? You look crazy." Shaking his head back and forth, he points to my phone. "Mike put that foolish grin on your face?"

Shaking my own head at him in response, I place my fingers over my lips, embarrassed by how easy I'm responding to Rick. God, I get it now. I get why so many girls have lost themselves under his spell. To Rick Grimes. Is that a check in his pros or cons column?

"Rick?" Glenn questions at first, then changes it up as though coming to some realization of his own. "Of course it's Rick. I should have known better. It's always been Rick." He answers, and places the bud gently back into my ear, the music evening back out in surround sound. Glenn's right. It's always been Rick. Gold star in his pros column for sure.

"It takes such a load off to let you know  
That you're the only one I never want to go  
Think I never did know what to do  
A love I never felt, now I feel with you…"

XXXXX

"So what are the guys like in London?"

"Uh, I don't know. Really polite. Pale."

"Did she say pale?" Sasha questions, turning to Rosita but with her thumb jabbed towards me.

"She did. And now I'm so uninterested in a European vacay."

"I mean, not as tan as the white guys here cause duh, not as much sun. But, I mean, not ugly or anything. Just paler than the guys here. I wasn't really interested anyway."

Tossing her dark hair over her shoulder, Rosita checks herself in the mirror in her locker. Puckering her lips, and looking over her pout she asks, "Cause of Mike? He's been MIA since you left. Spencer said he didn't want to hang out or nothing. He's so whipped!"

"Um…"

"Nevermind, I already know the answer to that one. I gotta motor. I have PE and I need to fake cramps to Coach Dale. You know he's not gonna ask too many questions and will let me just blow the whistle for everyone else's time trials if I tell him I'm PMS'ing. So gullible. Bye bitches." She waves, flouncing off down the hall in her snug jeans, and cropped top, her stride capturing the attention of all of the guys who wouldn't dare take a peek at her if Spencer was with her. Which he usually is.

"I'm outta here too. I gotta go gather up all of Abe's things and dump them in the trash before ROTC."

"Wait, what the hell?"

"Oh you weren't here for the dramatics. He told me he's been deployed to Afghanistan. I'm not pissed, I just know I can't deal with that. We're already gonna be separated when you and I leave for LA in a few months anyway, so I'm just stopping the bleeding before it even starts, that's all. Everyone knows that long distance relationships don't work." Crossing her arms across her chest, the heavy canvas like material of her camouflage ROTC uniform makes her appear more stern than her diminutive stature would make one think possible. She purses her lips and shakes her head at, seemingly dismissing the alarm that's probably stark and apparent on my face. "Don't make it sound so much worse than it is. I know you artsy fartsy types are so emo about everything. But me and Abe ain't like that. He knows the deal."

Digging in my locker for one of my sketch pads for my next period art class, my voice raises in defense of her assessment. "I'm not emo."

"Yes you are. You feel everything so deeply. Sometimes a thing is just a thing, and not a big thing. Get it?"

Shoving my located supplies down into my bag, and standing up to face her, I check over my shoulder to make sure no one is standing behind me at the next locker. Lowering my voice conspiratorially I lean closer to Sasha and confess. "No I don't get it. But, I do have to tell you about…a thing. I did…a thing."

Manicured eyebrows raised high on her forehead, Sasha is suddenly very interested, her body language switching lanes from bored to intrigued. "A Euro thing?"

"Um, no a before Europe thing. A big thing." I answer, holding my hands flat, about eight inches apart.

Twisting her face in confusion, Sasha tilts her head, not fully understanding what the hand movements mean. "A touchdown? You doing the touchdown hand movements cause it's a Mike thing? Like about him playing football? What am I missing here?"

Groaning, remembering that Sasha sucks at charades, and has caused us to lose many a game night with our friends, I frown at her terrible interpretation of what I'm trying to tell her. "Ah no, tried that… This is a different, but pretty big thing."

Exasperated with my non-committal answers, she blurts out, "This shit is so confusing, girl. Please just spit it out, Michonne."

Hemming a little, my lips pulled between my teeth, I close my eyes and just spit it out, "I slept with Rick!"

"Huh? Rick? Rick – Rick? Your neighbor Rick? Hot older guy, 'oh he's my best friend nothing has ever happened between us' Rick? That Rick?"

"Mmhmm…"

"And is that the big thing, or is it a big thing? Like a 'Big Dick Rick' thing?" she asks, hand on chin, studying me as I bashfully peep at her from between my fingers and hide my face behind my hand. Making the raised and flat hand gesture again, only about five inches or so apart, Sasha lifts her eyebrows as she gestures with her chin at her hands. "This big?"

"Bigger." I move her hands further apart, to approximately the seven to eight-inch range and nod my head, affirming that this is the big thing. The Big Dick Rick thing.

"Wha? Damn! He looks like he's average, but he constantly has these hoes itching and scratching after his ass like they're high on catnip for a reason." Shaking her head, Sasha whistles and gives my body a scrutinizing sweep. "So how's your kitty? He beat that up didn't he? Geez. That's why you all emo and shit today."

"Damn, Sasha, why you gotta make it sound so crude? It was actually very beautiful. He was gentle, and sexy, and he had a whole romantic vibe going with candles and whatnot. It was really sweet."

"I bet he was. So was it what you expected?"

"More than that." I answer, wistfully recalling the look on Rick's face, a blissful smile curving his soft pink lips as he was inside of me, buried so deep I could feel every inch of him stretching me, molding me to the shape of him. "The sensation was really painful at first. Intense as fuck. But there was something else, like almost pleasure. I don't know, I kept feeling like just so close to something."

"Orgasm."

"I guess? When he was fingering me I did get a feeling, like a quick rush over my body."

"Orgasm."

"Yeah, not from the actual sex though, so maybe I wasn't doing it right?"

"What could you have been doing wrong? You spread 'em and he does most of the work. Unless you're on top. I hate being on top cause Abe's lazy and doesn't even play with my breasts if I'm on top. I'm like hello, this is not a holiday, big man!" sucking her teeth at the thought, Sasha seems less than impressed by Abe right now.

"Well, I don't know, it wasn't bad. The first time was rough, like it hurt pretty bad even though Rick tried to distract me from it."

"How?"

"Just saying… stuff." I scurry to answer, not wanting to admit that Rick told me he loved me. I don't know why I don't want her to know that. I just…it felt like something special and magical just for us. "The second time in the tub was better, I was on my knees. It didn't have that tight, burning feeling from the first time though. And the last time was…pretty perfect I think." And I can't help it now, I'm smiling from ear to ear with the memory of that last time in middle of the night fresh in my mind. It's almost like my brain can conjure Rick's hands gripping my thighs, pushing them back. I can feel the weight of his body pressing me down into the mattress as he twisted and wound his hips until his pelvis was close against me, grinding against my clit. Whispering to me how much he loved me, loved this. Praising my body, my breasts, my lips, everything. I'd never heard Rick talk like that, a tortured strain rasping each word over his vocal cords. It was erotic and exciting… "So yeah, yes, it did hurt like hell and I could barely walk the next day, but you know I had to try and hide it from the docs, and Glenn's nosey ass was asking all kinds of questions."

"Oh yeah I could see that. You know he's like an extension of your dad and notices like everything."

"Oh man, don't even bring up my dad. He's on to me and Rick."

"What's he on to? Is he your boyfriend now? I thought he had a girlfriend? And I thought you already had a boyfriend?"

"It's complicated."

"Complicated because you know him and you know his reputation with girls? Or

complicated because of the fine black man coming up the hallway behind you right now?"

Sasha brings up a good point, two points that I reminded Rick of myself, and with that I feel the need to pull myself back from the precipice of doing something foolish. Of losing myself, my pride, everything I have going with Mike, to focus on a thing that might not be a thing with Rick. Or perhaps it's just his thing of the moment. It wasn't difficult to sense that he is finally growing weary of Lori, but that doesn't mean that I'm looking to take her place as his flavor of the moment. I hate to say it, but Rick Jr. is a lot like Rick Sr. Since his mother and father divorced, his father has not been without female companionship. Is that honestly something I want for myself? Like Sasha said, when is a thing just a thing and not a big thing?

I'm dragged out of those thoughts quickly, not given more than a few seconds to wallow there before I can hear his footsteps approaching. "What's up ladies? Hey gorgeous." Mike ambles up behind me, pressing his hard chest to my back, and places a tiny kiss on the nape of my neck.

Witnessing the slight startle in my eyes, and probably the panic, Sasha pulls herself up from her lean against my locker, and straightens her clothes out. "Yeah…I'm out! See you later, Mich."

"Later, Sasha. Oh hey, still wanna go look for prom dresses after school?"

"Oh yeah. Don't leave without me, I'll ride with you!" Waving over her shoulder, Sasha takes a sharp right, heading to her sixth period ROTC class.

With his hands on my hips, Mike wastes no time in turning me around to face him. Lowering to me, he kisses me again, this time on the lips, and I can't help but flinch. Not a lot, not so much that he seems to be able to notice. Just an imperceptible hiccup of my body at him advancing on me in a way that was once so familiar, and desirable, but now feels foreign. Odd.

"How was London, baby? Did you have a great time? I can't wait to see what you put in the journal." There is no way in hell I'm letting him look at that journal, and I'm actually feeling a little embarrassed blush coloring my cheeks as I think of what I wrote there. The explicit way that I've documented a full account of my first, second, and third sexual encounters with Rick. Erotic, and in enough detail that I think it might rival one of my mother's Zane novels that I nabbed when I was sixteen. Couldn't make eye contact with her for a full week.

"I didn't really get a chance to write much."

"Hm. Yeah, probably busy sightseeing. So, um, speaking of prom, what colors do you want to wear? I was thinking purple, or lavender or something soft like that cause that just really pops on you. You have that one lavender cashmere sweater that just lights up against your skin." Swinging his thumb across my collarbone that's exposed by the low cut V of my t-shirt, Mike seems mesmerized, hypnotically entranced, and sincerely focused on my lips. Licking his own, he doesn't even give me a chance to answer. "You know what? It doesn't matter what color you pick, you look beautiful in everything don't you? Listen, I gotta run to Calculus. Mr. Dugan is giving a test and if I get done quickly I can leave early, so… Talk later?"

"Um hm." All I can do is nod, as I offer him a tight lipped agreement to talk to him sometime later.

"Cool. Later, Mimi." With a swift peck to my lips, he's gone, and I can't help but to remain frozen in place as that eerie sensation of something being wrong blankets me once again. Shit.

XXXXX

"Why don't I just swallow each and every ounce of my pride  
Everything you do I wanna feel again  
Ain't no use for us to pretend…"

Listening to what is probably my favorite song by Amerie again, I can't help but consider that this song is the soundtrack to my life right now. Especially as I continue working on a sketch of Rick that I started while in London. It's not a full on drawing of his face. Instead it's his profile, partially obscured in shadow as he sleeps. For all of the years that we have been sharing a bed, usually when a thunderstorm rolls through and the sound and fury of it clapping and banging in the clouds unnerves me, reminds me of the night that Glenn's parents died in the car accident that led him to our family, I have never really looked at him. Watched him. I don't know why. Maybe I was afraid of what I might see there, unvarnished, unhidden by an implicit need to veil his feelings from me. Did I know his true feelings were there all along, brimming like sticky pools of love in his cool blue irises? No, I don't think so. Had I known, it would have been less of a moral imperative to hide my own feelings for safe keeping.

But that night, ensconced in his hold, held tight against his body, I dared to see what my father says was always plain. How relaxed he is with me. At ease with me in his space, knowing him, the real him. The him that has fears, and desires, needs, and dreams. The Rick that is not afraid to simply exist without the pretense of being a certain kind of guy, his affable nature more visceral and sincere. How could I have missed this Rick when I was pining away for him all these years, injured over and over again by the bee like sting of having to watch him with other girls?

I suppose that doesn't matter now I guess, using my middle finger to create shading across his high forehead. It's a technique that leaves only slight definition to differentiate between the silky strands of fine curls, toppling over and across his hairline, intruding on the masculine beauty of his face, and the dramatic sweep of his sandy colored eyelashes, rimming his closed eyes and covered in shadow. I hesitate for a moment, pulling my hand back from the drawing, wondering how to capture the depth of his spirit. Can the viewer see what I know to be true about Rick? That he may move with seemingly effortless grace through the day, but at night, when he's sleep, or when he's alone, or with me, he is not the ladies' man. He is not the most popular guy in school. The country boy with awe shucks good manners, and a cut hard body, decked out in t-shirts and jeans. Rick is more than that. He's a man who has unabashedly cried with his head in my lap when his parents divorced, his mother's depression to heavy a burden for a young Rick to bear. He is a man who knows that I will only eat scrambled eggs if they are cooked hard enough to make me forget that they were once baby chickens.

I know this man, and he knows me, and try as I might to convey that through my art, it seems as though the padlock around my heart that houses these little pieces of him, won't let me share it with the world. The thought elicits a grin from me. At the same time, as though his ears were burning knowing that he was heavy on my mind, my phone vibrates, alerting me to a new text message.

Rick: Hey I need to talk to you

Michonne: Ok, what's up?

I hesitate a moment before I respond, recognizing what could be an ominous tone behind those few words he's pushed my way.

Rick: Come outside. The back door.

Michonne: ?

Rick: Please

A hum, a thrill begins buzzing inside me, electrifying my limbs to force movement on my part. My brain may be stuck running through the million different scenarios of what his request means, but my core is shaken with the prospect of seeing him again.

Rick doesn't disappoint. Under the pitch black sky of a spring night in Georgia, with only the overcast luminosity of the moon's haze offering any clarity, stands Rick beaming a smile brighter than the moon could ever hope to be. At me. It's a grin more handsome than any I've ever seen, but I don't get a chance to appreciate it for long. In mere seconds he's backing me up to the side of the house, snatching me up and wrapping his strong arms around my body. Clad in his regular t-shirt and jeans, there is a minute chill clinging to his clothes that belies the heat emanating from his body to mine. It's that familiar feverish temperature he always seems to have, a fiery blaze of warmth stoking the life force that is Richard Grimes Jr.

"I had to see you. I couldn't wait another minute." He answers the question I haven't gotten around to asking, his words pushing the damp heat of his breath into the sensitive skin of my neck. There is no time for coherent thoughts to form, and intelligible words to fall. The urgent call for my soul to connect with his is too critical. As soon as he pulled me in close, I was trapped by how his larger body blankets mine.

"I can't believe you're here." For a moment my thumping heart makes me giddy, too excited to see him. It's as clear as if I was a puppy with a wagging tail, as I grin and push my body into his, seeking his touch. His protection from the chill of the night creeping up my legs, and under my nightgown. But then I come to my senses a little, those red check marks in his cons column coming to mind, and temper my response to one more fitting of friends instead of lovers.

I try to wiggle free of his commanding stance boxing out the world around us, and sidestep him, crossing my arms over my chest, protecting my heart from him. Holding tightly to my hip, Rick doesn't allow me to move away, but he briefly glances down, seemingly taking note of the change in my demeanor. He gives me a little space, removing one hand from my hip and placing it next to where my head is resting against the reddish colored bricks that make up my house. No longer able to hold his piercing stare, fearing that he can see more of me than I'm willing to share with him right now, I look away, down to where my bare feet and toes kiss the front of his boots. Fidgeting with the ruffled hem of my nightgown I break the thick silence between us, asking the question skipping through my brain. "What about your classes, and whatever you have going on in Knoxville?"

"I left campus right after my last class so I could get to you as fast as I could. Did 80 the whole way here. And I don't have class tomorrow until 4. So here I am." Playing with one of the ropy locs of my hair falling out of my topknot, he twists it around his long index finger. "I wanted to be here when you got back from your trip, but I had a paper to finish. I'm sorry."

Inching my shoulders up to my ears, an attempt to signal that what he's saying is of no real importance, I continue to elude his searching gaze. Petulantly, I remember Sasha's words about long distance relationships not working, about Rick being a ladies' man, and I remember that I don't want to be just another one of those ladies. Injecting probably a little too much of my newly formed attitude into my tone I finally answer him. "You don't have to be. It's all good."

"I told Lori about us."

"What!?"

"I told her how I feel about you. How I've always felt about you, Chonnie."

"Why? Why would you do that?"

"Because I love you, and despite how you're behaving right now, I know you love me too. And because I want this thing with us to work." Lowering his face to mine, our foreheads touch, a simple press that connects us, and forces me to look up at him. "If that's something you want."

Oh Rick…

"Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Yes." My smile is too big, the grandness of it taking over my face as I try fruitlessly to hide it with my fingers. Joyfulness is crowding inside of me, stomping out any doubts that are holding on for dear life. I feel so silly, and girly, and ridiculous. Emo as Sasha called me. But when I look at Rick he's sporting a similar grin, one so brilliant that it emboldens me to lean into him and steal a kiss. A tentative one at first, just a peck against his smile. His bottom lip is soft, pink, plump, an adequate compliment underneath my fuller pair. Something pushes me to do it again, to press my lips to his once more, to savor the taste and the sensation for a longer time. So I do.

This Michonne is brazen and bold with my kiss, licking my tongue out to lave its slickness between the seam of Rick's lips, an entreaty to accept my intrusion. Rick does. Not only does he eagerly open his mouth, he sucks my tongue inside, literally stealing my breath away. It's as though my own explicit need for him has ignited his own passion, and he's all over me now. Gripping my ass with his left hand, holding me in place as he grinds against my womanhood, my breasts crushed tightly to his heaving chest. Rick's right hand is behind my head, keeping me steady as he turns his own head to deepen our kiss.

Nothing has ever felt like Rick. Nothing. There is zero thought of anything but him, and the way he's making me feel right now. Hungry. Alive. Needy. Out of control. So out of control in fact that I barely recognize the moans erupting from my mouth and into his. Nor do I understand myself as he sweeps his hand beneath my thigh, hiking it higher, and I simply give in to the lust coursing through my veins and wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck.

Rick's surprise is momentary, only briefly catching him off guard as he halts our kiss for a second. Smiling while my needy lips nip at the two weeks' of beard growth shadowing his cheeks and chin, he's recovering quickly, thrusting both of his hands underneath my ass to catch hold of me. Finding me bare underneath my nightgown, Rick pulls his head back, and studies me. Smirking, those blue eyes twinkling like the brightest star, he raises his brows high on his forehead. "Oh really?"

"Hm?"

"You out here in your nightgown with no panties on huh?"

"I- I was going to bed."

"Yeah, I'm gonna take to you bed alright." He promises, and begins marching me, with long steady strides, over to his house.

"Is your mother home?"

"Probably, but you know her, she goes to bed at 9:30 every night." Rick answers as he opens the side door that leads us through the kitchen, then down the hall to the left, directly to his bedroom.

Crashing down on to his bed, laying flat on his back, I'm sitting on top of Rick balancing myself with my hands flat on his chest.

"You're here. With me."

"Did you miss me?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe I did."

Tickling his hands over my feverish skin and rolling my nightgown up my waist, then over my head, Rick tosses it to the floor. Admiration, and what I'm learning is lust is clouding his gaze, swirling the blue of his eyes with a darker hue that I've only recently become acquainted with. "I missed the hell out of you." That perfect bottom lip of his gets pulled between his teeth while he roams his hands up and down my thighs, then up, higher, higher still, until they reach my breasts. Thumbing my nipples, Rick begins a slow circle of them, causing them to stiffen and pebble with arousal against the graze of his thumbs. "I think these titties are my favorite thing in the world." Inching his torso up, he leans in and presses his mouth to my breasts, his kisses sloppy and wet against my flesh. "Tell me you missed me." He firmly demands, the gruff of his husky voice sending a shocking zing to my most intimate parts. The rough abrasion of his beard skimming against my breasts causing me arch into his mouth's suckle.

With my head tossed back, I'm finding it hard to even gather my thoughts, my body becoming soft and pliant in his hands. Instead of the words Rick wants to hear, a low hum, the tortured moan of a woman falling into the abyss of pleasure, falls from my slightly parted lips. Unsatisfied with my incoherent mewling, Rick lowers one hand, a slow drag down my abdomen, until it stops at my womanhood grinding against his groin. "Tell me you missed me." Rick commands again, his voice deeper, with a sandpiper rough edge to it. "Say it for me. Tell me."

"I- ahhh…" is all I can manage against the sensation of his fingers playing against my clit, as two of his fingers are breaching my core, stretching me open. Stroking with the just the slightest hint of pressure between my sticky pussy lips, Rick has me falling apart. Feeling his cock growing steely beneath me I wish I was able to find my way through the cotton candy sweetness of this feeling dampening my thoughts. If I could I might be able to tell him that he's all I've been thinking about. That this, his touch, his smell, the nearness of him, has been dogging my dreams. Causing me to wake up disappointed to find that he's not there. Yes, I've missed him. I've missed my old friend, and my new lover.

"Rick…"

"Yeah, I like the sound of that too." He rasps, as he watches me through half lidded eyes, fall apart in the palm of his hand. Holding myself steady, leaning back with my hands braced on his thighs, I can't help but to allow the orgasm to move through me. Taking hold of me, sending my waist into a hard, circular wind, pressing my clit to the palm of his hand, chasing more of the pleasure that flows through me.

Withdrawing his fingers from inside of me, Rick makes a few hasty movements, careful not to topple me over and off of his lap in my weakened state. Coming down from my high, I peek one eye open to see what's going on, I see him removing his t-shirt, and trying to undo his pants. Seeing the hair sprinkled over his chest leading a path down his stomach and into his pants, sends a shocking thrill through me, and makes me want to explore him in a way that I was not allowed last time. I was too inexperienced, and scared, though I do recall the weighty heft of him in my hand. Really I still am afraid of how scattered he makes me. But now, I want to explore him more. I want Rick to shiver and fall apart, a scattered mess at my hand too.

More than anything I want this to work out. The wild feeling mushrooming in my chest is egging me on, filling me with the courage to give as well as I'm getting. To be as good as or better than any girl that has come before me. I have to be better. I need to be better. What I can offer Rick has to be insurmountable by any other woman. How else can I expect to keep him satisfied? No one else has ever been able to do that before. Not even Lori with her 'Suzy Homemaker' act.

It's not like I don't desperately love this man. Haven't loved him since I knew what that feeling was. Because God knows I have. I've dreamt of him loving me the way that I love him, with everything in my heart. Me going to his house, climbing in bed with him all of those nights I complained of thunderstorms wasn't just because I was afraid of the storms, it was also because the whistling roar of those storms didn't matter when I was with Rick. In his arms I was always safe, cared for, protected. When he spent those few weeks staying with us after his parents' divorce it was more than I could have ever hoped for. Every night that he and I slept huddled together, I would run my fingers through his hair, the strands easily sliding between my fingers, and I would dream that it could always be this way between us…and maybe one day, even more.

So now that I have my chance, I'm trying to swallow my nerves. Forget the women who have come before me, and the uncertainty of things ahead of me, and simply seize every small moment with him, hoping to turn them into an eternity of moments. A forever of Rick and me, just like this. It's a desire that I will never recover from if it doesn't work out, but I'm throwing my heart into this anyway. I don't have a choice but to love him, to need him. It's an inevitability that I'm weary of resisting.

My fingers itch to touch all of him. Brushing aside his hands from the closure of his blue jeans, I use my own to shakily navigate the button and zipper, eager to take hold of him. Withdrawing his cock, pulling his jeans and boxers below his ass, I find him already hard as a rock. The sight of him leaves me nearly breathless.

Tinged a pinkish red, the length and girth of Rick's cock is intimidating, and stirs the memory of him inside of me, filling me, stretching me impossibly to take all of him. My recall of which sends a tightening pulse to my pussy, that's still wet, damp and ready to accept all of this. Hungry for it really. So eager and ready, I run my fingers in appreciation from the thatch of dark pubic hair that covers his groin, and connects with the hair trailing from his chest and stomach, to the tip, blunt, mushroomed and dripping with a fluid that's silky and thick between my fingers.

Swallowing thickly with his eyes on the movements of my hand over him, up and down, as I try to keep it wrapped around all of him though my fingers and thumb don't touch as they form a heated ring around the veiny stalk. Rick's chest and face are flushing a bright red. "Michonne, shit…"

"I did miss you." Dropping a little kiss to the head of his cock, I savor the taste of the fluid leaking from the tip, licking it's flavor over my lips.

"Ahhh fuck… You're not ready for that, sweetheart."

"I am. If you show me how."

"There's no rush for that."

"I want to, Rick. What would you feel like in my mouth?" I wonder aloud, more to myself than to him. The thought makes me eager, twitchy. Anticipation drenching my mouth, salivating at the very idea of it. Licking my lips again in preparation, I move off of him, and over to his side. Leaning over his lap, with his dick still greedily grasped in my palm, I angle the cap towards my waiting mouth. Running the tip over my lips, I savor the velvety brush of the heated skin, so soft, but hard at the same time. Intimidating yet beautiful. How is that possible?

Delightful wonder is overcoming any hesitance or fear that might be lurking within. Instead I close my eyes, and widen my mouth, accepting the taste of him to my welcoming mouth.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Michonne…"

"Mmm…" I utter, his cock stretching the corners of my mouth as I try to ease more of him in. It's almost too much, and I can feel Rick eagerly fist a handful of my topknotted locs.

"Shit, slow down, don't gag. Fuck!" he commands, his voice gritty and struggling to be heard over the grunts that supersede his words. Guiding my excited swallow of his cock, Rick gently uses his grip to move my head up and down on him, preventing me from taking too much too quickly into the back of my throat. While it serves that point, his assistance does not lessen the excitement curling in my belly at the thick, and heavy feeling of him pushing against the back of my mouth, causing my saliva to bathe his length. It flows down between my fingers, where I'm fisting him snugly. "Like that, babe. Fuck yes, ahhhh! Your mouth feels so damn good on my dick. Relax your jaw, sweetheart." Rick directs, loosening his grab just a bit. The sting of his tighter grip is missed by me, and for some reason I find myself wanting it back. The zing of it spurring me on. "Just like that…" he praises, chanting the words over and over again, a quiet plea of encouragement.

Releasing me from his hold completely, I find myself getting lost in the cadence of sucking his cock. The up and down, in and out replicating the manner that he fucked me a few weeks ago. It turns me on even more. Rick can tell. His large hand is now skimming lightly down my spine, tickling the nerves as he goes. Reaching my bottom, he curves his hand to cup the cheeks, rubbing over and over, until I feel the intrusion of his long fingers between my pussy lips. Parting them, he eases his hand back and forth, stopping to apply pressure to the clit, then back towards the hole. Back and forth, back and forth, until I can hear the obscene sound of my wetness leaking over his hand as it smacks lightly against my flesh.

"You like sucking my cock, Michonne? That make you wet like this?" he queries on a stinging slap to my ass. Damn! I've never heard Rick say such things. It arouses me further, and I push my ass back into his grasp, some unnamed thing seeking more of that sting. "Answer me." He commands on another short slap of his palm, now tapping over and over again against my clit. God help me the pleasure is ripping through my veins, causing me to widen my thighs, welcoming more of his commanding touch on my womanhood. I need more. My pussy is greedy, dripping over his hand like my mouth is over his cock. A desire that I can barely contain seeks his fingers, for them to enter me. Cease their teasing slap of my clit and my ass, and breach my hole.

Grunting, trying to answer him around the thick flesh that fills my mouth, my pace quickens as much as it can with Rick's cock pressing into the back of my throat, my tonsils fluttering against the head. He must like that, as the next thing I know he's carefully pulling my head back. Licking his lips, Rick seems to be trying to gather himself as he holds me back while also taking his cock and rubbing the head against my lips. "So much I want to do with you, sweetheart. You're so perfect. Special to me. I love you too much. You know that?"

Lips slightly apart, I'm panting at this point, my senses so clouded over, I can't answer him. I can only nod my head a little against the strict grip of his fist still holding me firm. "I love you more." I finally add, finding my voice, though weak and soft.

"Come here." Hoisting me up to straddle him again, he's pulling my torso down on his chest, my breasts kissing his pecs as he devours me with his kiss. It's not rough, it's focused, steady, an eager exploration that melts my body into his. My hands are in his hair, threading themselves in his curls, when I suddenly feel him at the entrance of my pussy, thrusting his hips upward, pushing against the hole.

Despite how wet I am, it's still a tight stretch. He's too big it seems, and I can sense my petals trying to give, flowering around him, slowly attempting to welcome the widening plunge of him invading my core.

"Oww…" a hiss escapes between my clenched teeth and from my mouth to his at the tiny pinch of pain that accompanies our coupling.

Wrapping one arm around my waist tightly, and the other behind my head, Rick pulls me in tightly to him. Legs bent at the knee behind me, he's using the heels of his feet, to piston himself up into me. While the expansion of my pussy is somewhat painful still, it's as though it remembers our last time together, and with each pump upwards, the pleasurable feeling of him increases. I'm melting like sugar around him, my head nestled into his neck, the nastiest words streaming in whispered puffs to my ears from where he's licking at my lobe.

"Uh, uh, uh…" each panted grunt is punctuated by Rick's gyrations, by how he's digging up, lodging himself deeper and deeper inside. "I need you so bad, sweetheart." He mumbles, picking up the speed of his grind. Seemingly not satisfied with our positioning, he rolls us over, maintaining our connection.

Now on my back, it seems like his heaving plunges are deeper, harder, especially when he leans up and pushes my legs back until they nearly meet my ears. It's unlike anything I've ever known, the agony and the bliss. The syncopated cadence of his dick grazing my walls, his pelvis banging against my clit smoothly, the friction unbearably delicious. All I can do is hold on to my thighs, intent on keeping them pinned back so that I can accept more of him, enable him to sink further, to imbed himself more firmly in my core.

"This pussy curves so nicely to my dick, sweetheart. Feel that?"

"Yes, yeah! Yeah!"

"I can feel you clamping down on me, shit! Strangling my dick, sweetheart, gotdam…"

My legs begin to shake, the muscles giving up on me. How do I even describe this feeling? I don't know if it's an orgasm. The two I've gotten from his fingers were not as intense as this, this power that's so intense and overwhelming. Shocking my limbs. Stiffening my form. Blazing heat is emanating from my core, a response to Rick thumbing at my clit in rhythm with the bangs and twists of his cock. Spastic movements, steal my coherence, and that's it. Oh my god that's it. A wave of erotic currents erupts through my body, tickling my skin with a glistening sheen of sweat, as I bathe my lover with a gush of nectar as Rick holds himself over me. His arms are straight, pressing into the mattress on either side of me. Our hips surge together in a series of frantic waves, as I'm overcome with the finality of whatever this is that has bewitched me. Billowing and pulsating through my form as I feel like I'm dying and floating, ascending and falling, at the same time.

I reach out, intent on experiencing this cataclysmic ride with him. He falls into me further, my legs pushed impossibly high on his shoulders, his balls banging harshly against my ass. "Ah, ah, ah…. Rick… something's…ooooooohh…"

"Shh, babe, I know, I know, I feel that little pussy getting hot as fuck! You're still cumming all over my dick!"

Heaving, sucking down the thinnest slices of air, a few stutters is all I can muster under the pressure of Rick rooting himself inside of me. "I-I-"

"Oh fuck, uh, uh, uh… Fuuuuckkk!"

Crumbling like concrete during an earthquake, I'm taken down by an aftershock surging from where we are joined. Rick is so heavy, he's collapsed on top of me, his hair damply curled against the side of my face that he's holding, cupping the sides gingerly in his trembling palms.

There is no movement between us. No words are spoken. Just the stillness of the humidity of the sex drenched room around us, and the slight squeak of the stressed wooden frame of his bed beneath us. Sheets, wet, slick with our sweat and the essence of our lovemaking stick to my back, and leak from my pussy in a tickling stream down to my ass. I don't think he used a condom, but for some reason, right now, I don't care.

Despite the parched feeling of my lips and mouth, I attempt to speak. "Rick? You ok?"

I wonder, somewhat worried that he has yet to make even the tiniest effort to move. And wincing at the strain pulling at the muscles in my legs and thighs, at the way he has me folded in half beneath his heavy frame.

"Hmmm…"

Rubbing my hand over the top of his hair, through his sweat soaked locks, I try to gain his attention to my need for a little relief. Swallowing down a sandpaper like heave of air, I try again. "Rick, baby, you're heavy."

"Shit. My bad, sweetheart. Ahhhh…" he mumbles over the sweat against my chest as he pulls out of me, and wearily shoves his own body, face down over to the side, with his arm still hooked over my shoulder across my breasts. I'm thankful for the release of pressure from his frame on top of me, holding my legs in a petrified stance at my ears, but I'm also bereft without him filling me. How is it that I miss him already? "You ok?"

"Yeah, I'm good. Sore again."

"I'm sorry. I tried to be gentle, but you sucking my dick was…an unexpected treat. Kinda got me amped up."

Blushing and grinning, I'm thankful for my dark skin, and his unlit bedroom, as they give me cover from my outward displays of giddiness.

"You know you don't have to do stuff like that, right? I don't expect that from you."

"I know. I just wanted to."

Chuckling, he leans up on his elbow, and studies my face. Quietly, patiently, his beautiful eyes consume me from head to toe, as though he's cataloging me for later when are once again separated. "I'm the luckiest son of a bitch alive, you know that?"

"Why you say that?"

Stroking his free hand against my cheek, I'm keening like a satisfied kitten at his touch, pressing myself into it. "Look at you. Do you know how beautiful and smart you are?"

"Yeah, I do."

"I know you do. That confidence is all you, Chonnie. And it's sexy as hell. Everyone can see it too. Not just me."

Turning my body into his, curious at his admission, I snuggle against the expanse of his chest.

"But you're mine, sweetheart. I hope you put that guy on notice, because I'm not letting you go." Clearing his throat, his eyes dance away from mine for a moment, as though he's nervous about what he's about to say next, giving it some additional thought before he releases it to my ears. "This is…a long time coming. Do you know what I mean when I say that?"

"Not really."

"It means I've loved you for a long time. Circumstances were never right for us though. Now, I think they are. I'll be home soon, and I plan on giving you everything. I promise you that, sweetheart. You're my best friend, Chonnie, and I just want to share my life with you. Share everything with you. Finally, I feel like I can say that, and it won't spoil things because it's now our time to be together."

"You told Lori that?"

"I did. I told her that I've been in love with you for years."

"I've felt the same, Rick. At least since I was fourteen."

"I kinda knew that. You were too young, and I was too old. But now is perfect." Lowering is lips to mine, Rick places the most perfect of kisses on me. It's not frantic and hungry. No, it's a gentle fusing, the connection soldering our hearts together.

Rick begins to grind against my hip, his cock hardening with every lick or nibble of our lips. Dancing his fingers lower, they find themselves at the tender apex of my thighs.

"Shit!"

"What's wrong?"

"I forgot to use a condom again."

"Rick! We gotta do better about that."

"I know. I promise I didn't mean to."

"Me either. I didn't think about it, but you at least could have tried to pull out. My dad already made an embarrassing ass comment to me about not wanting to be a granddad yet. So mortified."

"Wait what? You told your dad about us?"

"Not exactly."

Halting all movement, Rick's brows are furrowed as he pins me with his stare. "What exactly do you mean then, Chonnie?"

"Just that, uh…"

"Say it. Whatever it is, just say it. Don't keep secrets from me."

"It's not a secret or anything. Mike showed up at the airport when we were leaving, and he wanted to talk is all. So when he left my dad was giving me the whole speech about babies and sex."

"About you having sex with Mike?" he almost yells in question, the telltale vein in his forehead making an appearance, letting me know he's getting angry.

"In general, Rick. Calm down."

"You're asking me if I told Lori, did you tell Mike about us?"

"Nothing yet. I haven't had a chance."

"What? How is that? I told Lori the morning you left here. Talked to her while she was in Cabo. But Mike came to the airport when you left, and you didn't tell him shit about us? I got that right?"

"Why are you yelling at me?"

Waving his hands expressively, then gesturing his finger to point at me then at himself, he asks the question that I know is torturing him. Hell its dogged my thoughts since I left his bed a few weeks ago. "I'm not yelling, but I'm getting really close. I don't understand. Maybe I'm missing something. Is this not what you want? Am I- am I not what you want?" That last bit breaks, his voice cracking under the pressure of what my answer to it could mean.

"That's not it at all, Rick. I'm new to this. Mike is only my first boyfriend. You're only the first guy I've ever had sex with."

"Only and last guy." He asserts, his voice booming with certainty.

"I'm not as experienced with men and relationships, as you are with women. I'm navigating this as best I can. I don't want to hurt him, he doesn't deserve that."

"What about what we deserve? This is our time now, and I'm sorry, but I'm not losing you. I'm not sharing you either."

"Nobody said that. I just need time to break it to him is all. Prom is coming up, graduation is coming up. We had a lot planned together, it's going to be rough for Mike."

"I don't give a fuck about Mike." Jumping up from the bed, he's agitated. Searching his messy room for his underwear and jeans, kicking things angrily out of his way as he goes. I forgot that Rick hates not getting his way. He's spoiled I guess, but not for the reason some might assume. It has nothing to do with him getting his way with girls, and everything to do with him needing things to be settled. Certain.

His parents' divorce hurt him deeply, the way things were left up in the air left him so unanchored, that even at 17 he wasn't really able to emotionally deal with it very well. Finding out that his father's branch of the furniture store here in Atlanta had crumbled, and that he wanted them to move back to King County, despite his mother having her own job here, and him and Jeff having lives of their own, was hard. But then even further, once his mother refused to uproot their lives, learning that his father had also been having a five-year affair with his ten years his junior secretary, was unfathomable. The irreconcilable differences that resulted from the fallout of the Grimes' marriage impacted everyone, leaving in its wake a depressed ex-wife, and two surly teenaged sons. No wonder Rick Sr. had retreated, tail between his legs, an order for child support, visitation, and alimony in his fist, and acrimony for how he destroyed his own family in his heart.

Rick's coping mechanism was to run away from it all, to retreat over to my house, and keep his distance until his mother and father had figured things out. Keeping a large breadth between him and his mother's depression, which frankly I think Rick shared a little of himself. So, I don't fault him at all. But as he stomps around his bedroom, handsome face twisted into a frown, I try to remember that while I don't owe him an apology for wanting to handle Mike my way, I understand why he's angry. Would I be so understanding if I knew that Lori was still waiting in the wings?

Standing from the bed, I watch my best friend grab up his jeans and attempt to shove his legs down into them. Reaching for him, I place my hand on his arm, and he stills at my touch. "Rick, I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong."

"You have no idea what I'm thinking."

"Yes I do. I know you like the back of my hand."

"Pfft."

"I know your favorite food is peaches, that you cry when you watch the end of Titanic because Rose was a bitch for not offering to share that door with Jack, and you think that me not getting rid of Mike yet means I'm not serious about you. But you're wrong. You have to be patient and give me time to fix this. I promise I will."

Hands on his hips, he's looking down the angular slope of his nose at me. My fingers skimming over his chest seems to soften the steel in his posture. Releasing the stone petrifying his limbs, he reaches for me, folding me into his body. With a kiss on my temple, he sighs out his apology. "I'm sorry, Michonne. I really am. I'm so close to having something I've dreamt of for too long to lose it, to lose you now. How could I survive that?" He wonders aloud a question I've asked myself about him. There is so much fear of loss and uncertainty swimming in the waters around us, it's danger threatening to rip our love apart with the sharp gnashing of a shark's teeth.

"You won't have to." I promise him, even as thoughts of everything to come that could put it all at risk, comes to mind. I bury those thoughts though. I stomp out their negativity with the love that I have for this man, and silently pray that I'm right.


	4. Chapter 4 - Rick

Chapter 4 – Rick

"Richard Boden Grimes Jr."

I hear the Dean of the College of Business call out my full name, and wince a little, knowing that Michonne is somewhere in the crowd smirking at its use by the vibration of my phone in my pocket, probably notifying me of another text from her. She's here in the crowd and that makes this day ten times more special. Even if she is making fun of my middle name.

Hopping up from my seat, quickly scanning the crowd of faces through the blinding glare of the noon day sun, I see all of the people I've been on this educational journey with for the last four years, and I have to admit to myself that this feels good. Standing amongst my joyous peers, friends, fellow students, partiers, I feel like I've completed something. Ready to say goodbye to the flat memories of women I have slept with and nearly forgotten, relationships that should have never been, drunken all nighters that ended in lost memories and headaches. Truthfully I may be a little sad to be saying goodbye to the good friends I've made, but overall I'm hopeful that people who I've really connected with, like my roommate Ty and I, will remain in contact. I've completed one part of my life, it's likeness fading into my rearview mirror, and only those things that matter will be carried on to the next leg of my voyage.

Ascending up the stairs to the stage and accepting that rolled up piece of paper makes it seem real, final. Settling this journey and freeing me up for the next. And now, walking back to my seat, looking deeper into the throng of well wishers, I make out the round brightness of her pretty face, the sun framing her in a spotlight, its beam making her the true star of this show. I feel nothing but happiness, relief, weightless ebullience. Decked out in a pretty yellow sundress, Michonne is flanked on either side by her friends. The smile of my girl from the audience, bouncing in her seat with excited energy, steals my attention and takes my breath away. Everyone else in the crowd, seems to have melted away in to a colorless background. With a short wave, and a little pucker of her lips, she blows me a kiss, and almost knocks me off my feet before I stumble back into my seat. Damn.

XXXX

"Congratulations, son. This is a big accomplishment, and your mother and I are very proud of you. Well done. I look forward to what this means for your future. The family's future." My father leans in and gives me his classic one armed hug, pulling me in close. I'm happy to see him. He's dressed sharp in a dark blue suit and matching paisley tie. His dark hair is cut low, but still long enough to see the deep waves of his russet colored curls, and to evidence the few strands turning silver around the temples. With a fresh shave as well, it hides those silver hairs' telling presence in his beard. A proud smile is reaching his sapphire blue eyes that match my own, and the way his chest is puffed out as his large hand continues to clap me across the back of my black graduation robe, I can tell that the pageantry of the whole day is really affecting him.

My dad is a man of few words, but today is different. We spoke this morning when his flight landed, him letting me know that he agreed to my wishes that he not bring his flavor of the month to my graduation out of respect for my mother. And of course, him speaking in that booming voice of his, of the future, what my graduation means for this family. Again. With me not being able to answer that in an affirmative way, instead changing the subject to discuss the logistics of getting my furniture and things back to Georgia. That call ended the way many of them have recently when my dad speaks of my future, in a stubborn silence that neither of us care to break. This matter of my future represents a bit of a stalled negotiation between the two of us. But today, he's too content, pleased by my accomplishment to delve too far into the muck of it.

I appreciate that. That he's willing to let me have the pleasure of this moment. We are close, he knows me, and he knows what it means to me to be able to move forward. That is a subject we talk about often. What kind of man I am now, and the kind of man I want to be.

Regardless of what went down with my mother, and my father's numerous dalliances with other women, he has remained a constant in my life. I have forgiven him for what he's done. I have not forgotten how what he did damaged my mother, but with age I have tried to move on from that anger, and try to still hold on to my relationship with my father. He's done the same. We speak at least every other day. He flies up to visit me here in Knoxville pretty regularly, and there have been many nights hanging out at bars both here and at home, where we would go out drinking, and both of us went home with a lady for the evening. I suppose, as I admire the handsomeness of my father's face, and the fitness of his tall, fit build, that I learned some of my ways with women from him. How easily they are attracted to me. How effortlessly I have taken advantage of that. That's over now though, and not apart of the man I hope to be.

"Thanks, Dad. It feels good to finally be done."

Letting her eyes momentarily trail over my father and I with something curious clouding her features, then narrowing them for a moment on my dad, my mother reaches for me after my father releases his grasp on my shoulder. "Yep, you did good, kiddo. I knew you would." Hugging me tightly my mother is almost crushing me in her hold. With her stature so much smaller than mine, her tiny arms are wrapped around my torso, and I can feel the hiccups of her telling cries against my chest.

"Aw, Mom, hey don't cry ok? This is a happy day right?" I assure her, patting her back and trying to calm her down. Today my father is proud, but my mother is past that. Jubilant maybe? Probably closer to relieved.

In high school I wasn't the best student. Played football and baseball pretty well. I was the fastest running backs on the football team, and was a reliable hitter and short stop in baseball. But actual school-school? The one that you got grades on? Not so much. Sitting in classes while someone lectured to me on things that I could just as easily have read in a book, made me anxious. I needed to be out and about, doing things. Working with my hands, always moving. When I got to college one of my professors told me I'm a tactile learner, someone who needs to experience things instead of hearing or reading about them. My mother used to call it being like a shark, another animal that require constant movement. It's one of the reasons that store in Atlanta didn't make it. He couldn't stand being behind a desk, and much preferred being in the shop making the furniture instead of figuring out how to sell it.

The similarities between Sr and Jr are stacking up as I suppose I'm like my father in that way as well. Initially it is the reason that I wasn't interested in going to college, sitting behind a desk for four more years of lectures. The family business was going to be good enough for me, but my mother wasn't having it. Richard Sr. may have had his eye on my future, but so did she.

After my parents divorced I know my mother worried about me, about Jeff, about everyone but herself. Her main goal was to keep us afloat, and she did that, without missing a step, even as she experienced the devolution of what she thought was a lifetime commitment, and watched the man she once loved tuck his tail and head back to King County. Instead of folding into the grief and the depression that tried to claim her, with the help of friends like Michonne's parents she put herself back together. Found a better job at the bank she was working at, not able to support her family on the part time teller's salary she had brought in while married to my dad. She took a job as a bank manager, working long hours managing a staff, while also managing two boys. And even though my acting out, and subsequent withdrawal from the family could have derailed her, she didn't let it. My mother kept going. Adding her salary to the alimony and child support from my father, things stayed on course. Sports continued, shoes and clothes were still purchased, the refrigerator was still full. She even took a few classes herself over at Atlanta Metropolitan State College, setting an example that she commanded we follow. But there was an absence, a hole in our family that was still apparent, hauntingly so to all of us.

Despite the fact that her and my father were divorced, her acrimony towards him never bled over to block him from having a relationship with us boys. She encouraged it even. We spent weekends in King County with my father and grandfather at the farm, and working at the shop making furniture. Learning the businesses that we would eventually inherit. My father, and grandfather demanded it of us. No questions. No argument.

Richard Grimes Sr., an expert carpenter, with elegant but rugged hands, that juxtaposed against his pretty features, features my mother would say were too handsome to belong to a carpenter. Were better matched by a career in films, where his rakish affection for women would be lauded, celebrated as he swanned about with the cavalierly good nature and visage of a Cary Grant or a Paul Newman. His laid back humor, but no nonsense demeanor earned him the reputation of being a guy that women loved, and men admired.

For him, withdrawing back to the life he knew in King County, made him hyper focused on Jeff and I learning, participating in the family business more than ever. My grandfather, though still very much involved in the farm, no longer had the agility in his hands to make furniture. Arthritis and old age have robbed him of that gift. But he and my father say they see it in us, in Jeff and me. The Grimes focus and skill with our hands, but with me, also the smarts to successfully run a business. And so my father paying for my college education was conditional on me coming back home to help him run the business. As a man who never went to college, and didn't really know the first thing about managing a successful business, he thought me going would be the key to unlocking whatever puzzle there was to making Grimes Family Furniture the success it deserves to be. On this Richard and Dana agreed, and off I went.

Our family has been known in King County for centuries for making and selling the most well crafted furniture pieces for miles. There isn't a family in the county that doesn't have one of our cribs, rocking chairs, or tables in their home. It is something that innately we are all good at. Working with our hands, working with people. Our ability to understand what people need, and finding the artistic inspiration to give it to them, is something that we all take great pride in. Along with our craftsmanship. I designed and built my first table at the age of ten, and my mother still has it in our living room to this day. This ability is a gift that has been passed down in our family, and though I understand that it dictates my place in the world to some degree, watching my girl saunter her way up towards where I'm still hugging my mother, makes me question that.

"Oh look, I got your gown wet." She exclaims, hurriedly wiping away the evidence of her joyful tears, and dusting her fingers over the silky threads of my graduation gown.

"Mom said you're wearing a gown, Rick. Like a chick!" Jeff laughs, finding a way as usual to find some juvenile humor in even the most mundane of things.

"Hush, Jeff!" my parents censure in unison.

"What did I do?"

They go back and forth, but I'm not paying attention. My focus has already been stolen by the pretty lady coming towards me.

A coy smile tilts her lips upwards. The short sundress, skimming just across the middle of her thighs, and lightly swishing with the sway of her confident walk cushioned by her always present sneakers, steals my attention. She's heavenly in that color. In any color. But there is something so arresting about watching her come towards me right now, the gold of her dress popping against her sun-burnished skin. Her presence nearly stops my heart, and robs me of concern for my mother's happy tears, my father's fidgeting at her distress, and my brother's immature jokes.

My hands are itching to touch Michonne, to pull her into a hug, but before I can I remember my mother who's still standing in front of me, her face leaned up to mine expectantly.

"You ok, Mom?"

Leaning back, my mother looks up at me, focuses me in her gaze with those mossy green eyes of hers. Beckoning me to bow down toward her with the crook of her index finger, she holds my attention. Cupping both sides of my face in her small hands she whispers in a hushed tone meant only for the two of us. "Yes! Yeah, of course I'm ok. I'm just really proud of you, Rick. You did something that no one else in my family or your father's has ever done, and this opens up the world for you. Remember that ok? You can do whatever you want now, you can make the life you want for you. You understand? You've just bought yourself the freedom that neither your father nor I ever had. Now what are you going to do with it?" she asks rhetorically, poking her finger into my chest to drive home her point. Looking over her shoulder at where Michonne stands a little bit away from us with her friends, patiently waiting to join my family and I, my mother winks conspiratorially at me, then gives me a sly nod of her head. I understand completely.

"Yeah, Mom, I know." I promise, and drop a kiss to the top of her head. She steps aside, and in moments I'm welcoming the soft press of Michonne into my arms. "I'm so glad you made it." I mumble into the coconut and mango scent of her soft hair, placing a kiss into the twisted tufts pulled into a side-swept cascade over her creamy shoulders. "You look so beautiful."

"Yeah, Michonne. You- uh…ahem. Huu…" Gulping down his nerves, Jeff is trying his best to also compliment Michonne, but I know the strength of that boy's crush on my lady and it's making it hard for him to push the words past his braces so he can just spit it out. I'm gonna help him.

"Ye-yeah? You think Michonne looks hot in her dress, Jeff? That what you trying to say, kid?" I mimic his stutter. There you go, Jeff, a little payback for the gown joke.

Eyes bucking at me putting him on the spot, Jeff begins turning a splotchy red across his face. Swiping his brown hair from his eyes, he tries to collect himself and eek out a response. "Ye- hot, but in a respectful, uh, not hot, but uh… Pretty. You look very pretty, Michonne."

"Thank you, Jeff, you look pretty sharp yourself there, dude. Shirt even has a collar on it. Nice." She compliments and reaches out to pull on the color of Jeff's Polo shirt, sending him into a blush so scarlet red I hope he doesn't burst into flames. "And thank you, Boden. You definitely look handsome today." Lifting on her toes to give me a peck to my lips, and crushing me with her lean arms around my waist, Michonne calls me by the middle name that everyone in the world is forbidden from calling me. It's my grandfather's first name, and it's ok for a man in his late sixties, but not for a man in his early twenties. Michonne knows I hate the name, and before I get to remind her of that, we are interrupted not once but twice.

"Hi, Rick!"

"Hi, Andrea." There is now a little faltering in my own voice, it's not intentional, but it's there, and I know Michonne can hear it. She knows me too well not to have picked up on it. My fists try to clutch her waist, but she just gives me a little arch of her eyebrow, grabs a hold of Jeff by the arm and turns her back on Andrea and I, eluding my grasp and giving my family and her friends her full attention, leaving me to a conversation with Andrea.

Snatching her cap from her head, her gaze switches over to where Michonne and my family are standing, then turns it back on me with a clear question in her eyes. Waiting a beat, as though she expects me to introduce her around, then finding that I'm not, she breaks the silence. "Well, it's over, huh. We actually graduated."

I may be standing here with Andrea, but my focus is on Michonne and the smooth way she's kind of ignoring me without making it obvious she's doing so. My staring must be too hard to not call out because the next thing I see is Andrea's fingers snapping in front of my face, blocking me from my perusal of the back of Michonne's head.

"Huh? Yeah, yep. It's done." I grimace, a little embarrassed, but ultimately ready to get this interaction over with. A general sense of unease is creeping into the once jovial setting. It's odd standing over here while my divorced parents, my brother, my best friend slash girlfriend, and her friends have a good time chatting and laughing while I'm over here alone with a girl that I have slept with on and off for the last four years.

Andrea is a nice girl. Ambitious. Tough. Smart. Double majoring in Political Science and Business Administration, she and I crossed paths many times in classes and knew a lot of the same folks, ended up at many of the same parties. We hit if off in a global economics course that was taught by a teacher from France whose accent was so thick neither of us understood what he was saying. Somehow we banded together to try and pass that class, and partnered together in other ways as well. Over the years, crisscrossing in and out of each others' lives, we have done that many times.

"Cool. Are you sticking around for any parties tonight?"

"Um no. Ty and I are gonna finish packing up our apartment this afternoon, then I'll be heading back to Georgia in the morning."

"Oh? Ok. Got a job lined up then? I'm heading to grad school."

Cutting my eyes to my left again, I quickly answer her. "Nah. No grad school. I have something lined up though."

Inching herself a little closer, and lowering her voice, Andrea raises her blue eyes to mine and gives me a smile that I once found cute. "Ok, Rick, I get it. The yellow dress?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"Oh yeah. Well and I recognize her from the pictures you had of your 'best friend' all over your apartment."

"Ah."

"Yeah. It's cool. I know what's up, I get it. Good luck, Rick." She utters, leaning in as though she might hug me.

Instead I head her affectionate farewell off by offering her my hand for a shake instead. "Yeah. Good luck, Andrea."

Scoffing at the handshake, she only offers a quick humph, accompanied by an awkward fluttering of her fingers, and she's gone as swiftly as she appeared.

Before I even get a moment to refocus on Michonne and my parents, apologize for the interruption, I'm tackled from the back in a hug so strong and quick, I'm momentarily thrown off kilter. Pitching forward, I can feel two smallish hands on my shoulders, and the slight weight on my back.

"Rick!"

"What the hell? Who the f-"

"Congratulations, Rick! You did it!"

Bucking my eyes as I try to make sense of what's going on, I steady myself on my feet. Catching sight of who it is a deep groan of disappointment rumbles in my chest. Can this day get worse? "Jessie? What are you doing here? You're not graduating today."

Huffing at the exertion of running and trying to tackle me, she's giggling at herself and straightening her flower print dress. "I know. Some friends and I came to see you and some other folks we know graduating today."

Absentmindedly, not even listening to her reason for being here, or jumping on my back, I instantly look around for Michonne. I don't see her. She's walked even further away from me before I even got a chance to get my bearings. My eyes scan the crowd of people. Not finding her or my parents anywhere in sight, I drop my head back on a long sigh. "Oh, ok." I breathe out, already knowing I have some explaining to do. Rubbing my thumb against my eye, I eek out a final word, hoping to end this conversation as well so I can go find Michonne and start apologizing. "Thanks."

"You and Ty partying tonight?" Jessie asks, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. Her eyes are anxiously dancing over my face, awaiting an answer.

She's hopeful that I'm going to say yes. I know why. Jessie has had a crush on me for at least a year. When her friend Karen began dating my roommate Tyreese last year, she would always show up with her at our apartment. She was always just there. Staring. Smiling. At first I didn't pay it any attention because it was one of those times that I was with Lori, and she has always had a way of sucking up all of my time and attention. But when I had to pull Jessie's ex-boyfriend Pete off of her at a party, she became relentless. It wasn't just harmless staring, or being extra chatty any longer. She would stop by the apartment with artwork she said she made for me. Owl sculptures. Baked goods. It got so bad that it was pissing Lori off, which meant she was fussing at me, which meant I had to put a stop to it. I pulled her aside when she had turned up at our apartment for the last time six months ago, and let her know that she needed to stop coming around so often. She nodded a lot and seemed to understand, mumbled something about how she thought me helping her with Pete meant something more, and then she took off. I haven't seen her much around campus, until now. Perfect. Fucking. Timing.

"No. I'm heading home with my girlfriend in the morning. Back to Georgia."

"Ok. Yeah. Karen told me that Lori took a teaching job down in Georgia. I guess you guys are back together then. I'm sorry." Looking away, averting her eyes, Jessie makes a few hesitant steps backwards from me. Pushing her hair nervously behind her ear again, she darts her eyes to mine then turns to leave. "Sorry, Rick. I didn't realize you guys were back together. Congrats."

What does she mean that Lori and I are back together again? Lori's moving to Georgia? Shit.

XXXXXXXXX

"So…you're not mad?"

"No, Rick, I'm not mad. Why do you keep asking me that?"

"Just, the way things may have looked at my graduation. And then you disappeared, and you've been kind of quiet most of the day."

"I told you, I saw a guy I know. The girls and I went to say hi. I don't know where your parents went. But, when I saw all the little blonde fans 'The Famous Rick Grimes' had, I went to go say hello to my friend." Snorting, she uses her fingers to make air quotes, she's smirking as she rolls her eyes. Michonne may not be mad, but she definitely isn't pleased either, and with this mess with Lori moving to Georgia heavy on my mind, I know that now is the right time to have a discussion with her about some things. But first…

"Zeke?" I ask, needing to get to the bottom of who the guy was that Michonne walked away from me to talk to.

Twirling away from me, the snug fit of her little cotton panties stretching across her ass as she bends over to pack away some of my dishes, is distracting me.

Michonne rolls her eyes at me again when she stands back up, as though she has grown tired of this conversation, and huffs out a short response. "Yeah."

"Wanna tell me more?"

Lifting her shoulder in a one armed shrug she slowly shakes her head, and frowns, "What more is there to tell?"

Needing to soften her up a bit, feeling the prickly bristles of her little attitude flaring up, the telling angle of her elbow jutting out with her hand on her hip giving her away, I place a tiny peck to her lips that she doesn't pull away from. She's mad at me. She doesn't think I can tell, but I've known this girl for most of my life. I can tell when she's upset. I still remember when she got mad and stayed mad at me for two whole weeks because I kept beating her at Mario Kart when her parents first got her a Wii. Competitive and petty, with a temper to boot. That's my Michonne. "Hey, Chonnie, I'm just curious about how you know this guy all the way in Knoxville is all."

"His name is Ezekiel Jones. I met him at that comic book convention in Cali I went to with my dad and Glenn last summer. He wants to be an actor. We hit it off and have semi kept touch. I didn't know he would be at your graduation. It was just a coincidence that he's from Tennessee and was there for his brother Morgan."

Searching Michonne's face I'm not convinced. "Coincidence?"

Evidencing her disinterest in this conversation she begins picking at her cuticles. "Yep."

"Well, you could have said something before you disappeared to run off with him. I was worried about you."

"Why? The 'Famous Rick Grimes' was preoccupied with his fan club. I didn't think you would miss me." Making a move to walk away from me before she even fully finishes her last sentence, the edge to her tone, one that belies the sugar sweetness of her softly spoken words, tells me everything.

Blocking her retreat with my body, I wrap my arms around Michonne and fold her into my body. "Don't you start. I'm just your Rick, Michonne. You know that." Tilting my head, I kiss her softly, inching my lips to the little nook underneath her ear, and inhale her. "You know that, right?"

"Whatever…"

"Nah, don't whatever me, sweetheart. Tell me you know that I live to love you. I've only see you."

"You always do that, Rick. Make something about you, that has nothing to do with you. You're so spoiled that way. Always have been."

"What?"

"You want me to say the magic words so that you are forgiven and we can just move on like I didn't see all these little blonde groupies falling all over you. One literally ran up out of nowhere and jumped on your back. And I didn't get pissy then, Rick, cause I trust you, even though sometimes I feel like I shouldn't. You have a history with women that sometimes gives me pause, but I'm trying very hard to push those icky feelings away, ya know. Especially with me leaving for LA soon, and everyone telling me that long distance relationships don't last. But, I just gave you some space to handle your business, cause I'm trying to be mature and not act like the little inexperienced 18-year-old. So, I went and found a friend to chat with, and you're giving me shit about that, and I'm just confused about why."

"Mich-"

"The problem here isn't that you have a past that includes tons of women. The problem here is that you want me to allow you to explain and give you time to clean it all up so you don't have to deal with me being upset with you, but you never want to give me the same courtesy because you don't trust me. Remember when I told you that I needed a little time and space to break up with Mike? You acted like it was some major deal. You had to pout and push, and make it about me not being serious about you instead of me just wanting to be careful with the feelings of a guy that I really cared about. I'm trying here, Rick, but you have to try too."

She's right. I wish I could argue these points with her a little better, but she's got me pinned. Michonne has always been good with her words, a natural debater, so much so that her parents have teased that if writing and comic books don't work out for her then she should go to law school. Her verbal gymnastics have stifled more than one argument with me, and kept her out of trouble with her parents more than once. It's how, in a way I still don't understand, she talked me into cutting their grass for a whole summer instead of her. Her intelligence is one of the things that I have always admired about her. That and her ability to see right through me. Though to be honest I'm not liking it too much as she stands tall in front of me, lean arms crossed over her full breasts, sans bra, causing them to rise up over the low neckline of her tank top, manicured brows furrowed. Fit little body swayed to one side, with all of her weight relayed to her back leg, causing the muscles in her thighs and calves to bunch and tighten. I don't mean to be distracted by her while she's pissed at me, but…even right now she's gorgeous. Her lips are moving, but I can't hear her. I can see her, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling. Fuck she's beautiful.

Michonne is calling me out on this, and she's right to do so. I was upset about the whole Mike thing. Probably because I know how much she liked him. It always lived in the back of my mind, every minute after the first time she let me touch her, that had Mike played his cards right, she would have been underneath him, gifting him with the pleasure of her body, writhing and pleading, begging for more of him instead of me. It's a quirk of my personality I suppose, that I can't tolerate things being broken or unsettled. There is an innate need in me for the pieces of a puzzle to all fit nicely where they belong, and well, when they don't it's difficult for me to cope. I'm not proud of this. But I understand that it's why I could almost feel the fire building under my skin when she told me Mike came to the airport to see her off.

Mike is the guy that I know Michonne has always seen herself with. Tall, good looking, black guy. Smart, well off. He represents the path of romantic affection that at one point Michonne willingly chose. The guy she intended to have a long term relationship with. I'm the friend who filled in when the guy she really wanted fucked up. At least that's how my brain had twisted it, and that made me feel like at any moment the rock of our long history together would crumble like the fragile porosity of volcanic formations, and simply not last under the pressure of choosing between romantic love with her dream guy, and a familiar friendship with me. Flawed reasoning like that is what caused me to stomp on the gas all the way down 75 South to get to her when she got back from Europe. To have a little fit about the whole Mike thing, which oddly enough, ended up resolving itself.

When Rosita's boyfriend Spencer divulged to her that Mike was a bit of a whore and had been cheating on Michonne with a number of girls, and Rosita quickly relayed the scandalous admission to Michonne, the need to be so delicate with Mike's feelings wilted away. Michonne confronted him about it, but he simply dismissed it rather cavalierly noting that she is the girl of his future. A perfect match for the Senator's son, who could only actually be in a relationship with a certain kind of girl. Michonne comes from the right family, and those other girls, while more sexually experienced, were just a way for him to hold out for her to be ready for him. The way Michonne told me the story, Mike was fairly matter of fact about his clandestine indiscretions, but also seemed confused that she was so upset about it. He did like her, he did want to be with her, and for them to have a future together. But he had needs and was not going to be able to wait forever for her to hold on to as he put it "the whole special virgin act".

In the long run, it made it much easier for Michonne to bid farewell to Mike, and for us to move forward. I took my baby to prom, feeling pretty proud and excited to have her on my arm. Our parents were probably even more excited than either Michonne or I, somehow believing that they had all called this at one time or another in our history, and this was just the fulfillment of Michonne and I realizing what everyone else has always known. That we were made for each other.

Laughing at myself and the absurdity of this whole situation, how far we've come, how much further we have to go, I drag my hand over my face, and pull my focus away from the pout of her sexy lips. I shake away the thought of them all over me before I find myself in more trouble with her over my obtuse arrogance at Michonne's jealousy and my own, as well as the absurdity of it because my full heart is hers. She doesn't realize it yet, doesn't know what I have to tell her, but right now my heart is pumping furiously at the simple thought of her being upset with me. My stomach is sick to think that things with her and I might be unsettled in any way. Reaching for her arms, to loosen their tight knit over her chest, I try to pull them apart and diffuse this situation. I can't stand her being in a bad mood.

"I- You're right, Michonne. I guess I am a little spoiled. Maybe. But I do trust you, babe. I- I know how good all of this is, how great this can be. And you know me, you know I try to control things. Sometimes too much maybe, but it's only because I want only the best for us. I want this to work out. Don't you?"

"Yes." Michonne huffs, her arms finally falling down to her sides. "You know I do."

Using my index finger, I lift her face to mine, and immediately I fall, love sick, into the warm molasses of her pretty eyes, and I feel myself melt. For a moment I can feel my words choking me, throttling my voice in my throat I'm so overcome with feeling for Michonne. I have to close my eyes for a moment to gather myself before I drown. Clearing my throat, I push out the words, "Babe, I love you, I trust you. Do you trust me? Do you love me, Michonne?"

"You know I do." Michonne admits, her eyes lifting to mine, then dropping lower to where her hands are placed, palms flat on my chest, running them over the soft cotton of my orange UT t-shirt. Heating my body with the simplicity of her touch. Soothing the agitation between us. "And don't give me that look, Boden."

"What look?"

With the tips of her delicate fingers she rubs them over my eyebrows, then over my eyes, across my eyelashes. "That one. The puppy dog, I'm sorry, forgive me, Chonnie, look. Same look you gave me when you lost my first iPod when i wasn't even allowed to take it out of the house. When you accidentally stepped on my retainer."

Grabbing her up off the floor, placing her on the kitchen countertop, I put one hand behind her head, and the other around her waist. I move into her her, standing between her legs, and pull her closer. "Come here. I'm not giving you a look. That iPod was too small and easy to lose, and your retainer shouldn't have been on the floor in the first place. And, I'm just telling you that you are right, and I'm sorry. I want things with us to always be good, and I know I mess up sometimes. I get jealous and possessive, but it's not because I don't trust you, or because any of those girls from before matter. It's because I love you, and I want to be with you more than anything in my life. And because I believe in us I made a decision."

"What decision?"

"Remember when we talked about what we can do to try and make you going to LA work for us?"

"Yeah?"

"I uh, I found a way to make it work. The perfect way."

"Ok. What you got?" Rubbing her fingers through my hair, Michonne is almost stealing my focus with the steady scratch of her nails against my scalp.

"Damn, babe, I love when you do that." I mumble, quickly losing focus.

"I know." She whispers, leaning closer to my face, her breasts mostly visible down the neckline of her tank top, swaying dangerously close to my lips.

"Hmmm…"

"That feel good?"

"Yeah, you know it does." I whimper, falling forward to nuzzle my face down into her cleavage. Her chest begins to heave, breathy pants easing out in cadence. "You smell good, too."

"That's the perfume you gave me last month. You like it?"

Licking my tongue between the valley of her breasts, I'm lost in her, our conversation officially derailed. Completely forgetting what I had to tell her. "Yeah, babe, smells amazing on you. Makes me want to take a bite." And I'm not lying. The silky feeling of her breasts with my cheeks buried between them, my jaw abrading her satiny skin with the whiskers of my beard, and the tight cherry of her nipple rolling over my tongue has replaced any thought that may have seemed at one time very important.

"Mmmm, Rick, baby, didn't you have something you were trying to tell me? Some decision you made?"

Swiveling my head back and forth, I do not care about whatever I was talking about before. I'm about to lay Michonne back on this counter and have a little taste.

Grabbing a handful of my hair in both of her hands, Michonne yanks with a little jolt and tries to get my attention. That little sting though? It just makes my need to get inside of her more urgent. Moving up and sucking the skin of her neck into my mouth, I pull it between my lips, then ease my teeth into her flesh, giving her a little bite.

"Ooooh, god… Wait, Rick, stop for a sec so you can tell me what you had to say." She huffs out on a long staggered pant. "What were you going to say?"

Releasing her skin from my teeth, I lean back. Standing straight up I can see how the light from the overhead kitchen light is hitting her skin, showcasing the glossy remains of my saliva all over her. God I want to fuck her right now, but she's looking at me with earnest question in her eyes, searching, looking for a hint of what I have to tell her. Wiping my hands over my lips to calm my hungry appetite, I give her one more peck, then pull her hands away from my hair and hold them together in mine.

"I applied for a community outreach position with the city of Los Angeles, and… I got it."

Eyes bucking at what I've said, the initial surprise only allows her to blurt one word. "What?!"

"It will be working with at risk youth through the city schools. It's not making a lot of money, but it's enough for me to afford an apartment, and that way we can be together. I don't want us to have to wait four more years. We've already waited too long."

"What about your dad and grandpa? The furniture store and the farm? They're gonna be mad."

"I will handle them; don't you worry about that."

"It just…wow! It's a surprise."

Backing away from her, at the uncertainty clouding her features, I steel myself against a possibly negative response. Swallowing thickly, I have to admit this isn't the reaction I was hoping for. "I won't accept it though if you don't want me to. I should have-"

Extending her hand out towards me, she rubs her palm across my jaw, pulling me back closer to her. "No! I just don't want your family to get upset with you. I know your dad only paid for your college because he expects you to come work for him."

"He does. But, Chonnie, I will handle everything. Just tell me that you're ok with this. It was presumptuous of me to do it, and I don't want you to feel any pressure. You can still live with Sasha and the other roommates you have lined up. I'll get my own place so you still have some space, but I needed to make a way for us. I wasn't going to make it without you."

"I can't believe you did this, Rick." Inching forward on the counter, Michonne seems energized by my news, and lowers her lips to mine, gifting me with a long, slow kiss. A deep exploration of my mouth that nearly buckles my knees. She may be new to sex, but she's an expert at kissing. I don't want to think of why that may be, who she has practiced this with before me… Instead I focus on the sensation of her fingers scraping against my scalp again, her legs winding tightly around my waist. As though on queue, the song from the speaker attached to my phone changes the track, and Gary Clark Jr.'s blues guitar blares soothingly into the apartment.

"Oh baby, things are changing now

And I can't tell where I'll be from here on out  
Ooh, it's hell  
Knowing that from now  
We shouldn't kiss and tell  
It's so good…"

"We're gonna make it aren't we, Rick?"

"I hope so, babe. I'm trying everything in my power to make sure we do."

Dropping her head to mine, our foreheads kissing, Michonne speaks softly, her voice so quiet and small I almost can't hear her. "I didn't want to say anything cause I was scared of what you would think, but… I was worried about what was going to happen while I was gone. I mean Sasha broke up with her boyfriend that she's been with for a long time cause he got deployed. And this is so new."

"Hey, that's not us though. Michonne and Rick aren't new. You've been my girl, and I've been your guy longer than either of us would admit, but it's always been there. You've been in my heart for thirteen years, girl."

"You too, babe."

"See?" I grin at her confirming her love for me. It emboldens me, steels my spine, energizes my heart. Cupping each side of her face with my hands, holding her in place, I lace her lips with a series of kisses. Small pecks at first, tiny ones, just to kiss away the doubt that wants to spill out. But her whimpers and moans hit me in the chest, a powerful blasting thrill to my groin as she pouts her full lips to kiss me back. Her pink tongue inching out just a hair to taste my lips that grow hungrier with each touch. I don't want to pull away but I have to tell her, make sure she knows. "Even if I wasn't going to LA with you, I'm not gonna lose you, Michonne. You're not gonna lose me. Not now, not ever. I can't. I won't."

There are no more words to speak, and the chorus of melancholy, love-sick lyrics sufficiently blanket us under the yellowish glow of the kitchen light. The singer's ballad tells the full story of my heart, how I feel about this girl. Have felt for too long. Wasted too much time trying to be her friend instead of allowing myself to be in love with her.

Pulling her soft wet kisses from me, retreating and causing me to moan at the withdrawal of her love, Michonne pulls her tank top off of her form, up and away, tossing it over her shoulder and onto the floor. She's not wearing a bra, and instantly the jiggle of her heavy breasts again draws my attention. Causes my mouth to water and my palms to itch, sweat with the need to grasp them in my clutches. Suckle them back into my mouth.

Michonne hops down from the counter and stands in front of me in only her panties. Regardless of the kitchen light's odd yellowish cast, my girl emits a luminosity that is unmatched by even the sun, and I need inside of her right now. Thank god Ty already left to head back to Memphis an hour ago with Michonne's friends departing not long after. It's been a tortuous four weeks since I have had the pleasure of her, the silky feel of her wrapped around me. It's this obsession with knowing her, loving her that drives me, and robs me of the words right now.

"I told you already, girl  
That I was so gone  
But that sweet, sweet loving  
It had me hanging on, so strung out…"

Lowering her gaze from mine, Michonne's small hands begin pushing my sweatpants and underwear down my lower half, not stopping until they pool at my feet. I can only watch, a spectator in my own scene as she drops to a crouch before me, and wordlessly urges me to lift my legs so she can remove everything. On her way up, she stops momentarily to gift my thighs with a series of small, wet kisses, inching dangerously close to my pubic area.

Standing tall, and at her full height, Michonne kisses under my chin, my neck while her hands grasp, clasp around my length and brush underneath my t-shirt and against the hair on my chest and nipples. Agony is the only thing I can compare it to. Torture. The sweetest, fieriest death burns me alive. My shirt is too much. Sticky against my sweaty skin, I have to get rid of it, I can't tolerate the cling of it to my torso. I can't allow it to obstruct my body from her wandering hands and tongue tickling over my skin. Her firm grasp bounces from playfully dancing impishly through the thick dark hair covering my groin, then higher up and over my abdomen, then back to my cock which arches towards her, desperate for her touch.

My breathing is shallow. Weak puffs of air. It's insufficient. Only the anticipation of what this beautiful woman will do next sustains me, keeps me alive on the very edge. Michonne is the only woman who has ever done this to me. Filled me with life, desire, at the simple idea of her, being inside of her. I remember the heated suction of her mouth killing me softly on that night so many weeks ago, and a sinful thought skips through my brain, suggesting that I could simply ease her to her knees and place my dick on her full lips. Caress the seam over the tip, relieve some of the pain arching through the shaft. Remove the tension of wanting, needing her to swallow my cock into her pretty mouth. Just the way her lips are nipping, biting and pulling at my own right now. Or bend her over, pull apart the bubbled cheeks of her ass and find succor between the damp sweetness of her walls. Something. Anything to feed this rapacious addiction to her.

I don't though. But maybe if I can at least look at her face. See the intention, her plan for me in her eyes. The round pools that I have seen glassy with tears, dance with her laughter, shine in accompaniment to her dazzling smile. Years. Months. Days. Hours. Minutes. I have loved this woman for most of my life, and this feels like the pinnacle of that, peaking at this moment that I choose her. Where I toss my life into her hands and ask her to accept me, to allow me to accompany her as a mere passenger on her journey. Perhaps I could relax if she permitted me to fall into the abyss of her beauty, and at least allow my soul to languish there while she tortures my body with her playful game of cat and mouse.

Michonne's heated breath bathes over my lips, as she seems indecisive of her next steps and simultaneously lifts her eyes to me. That simple movement, the fulfillment of my anxious desire, unfurls my passion for her. My love for my best friend. And I can see in her face, the quiver to the sly curve of her lips, she accepts what I'm offering. But does not understand.

"You are doing this thing for me, Rick..." She repeats her statement from early, clearly still wrestling with how we've come to this place. "It's like you're giving me your life. You don't have to, ya know? You have a family, commitments. Your home is in Georgia, as a carpenter. Running a family business with your dad. Not in LA with me. I don't deserve this. Why would you do this?" She wonders aloud. Leaning back against the counters, her hands retreat to her sides, twisting at the satin trim of her flower patterned panties. Worry deflating the courage in her once certain stance.

Finally daring to reach out and touch her, this angel. My friend, my lover. My everything. I crouch down to meet her eye to eye. "You're my family, Michonne. You're my home. Wherever you are, is where I want to be."

Hiding behind her hands, the angst in her voice dampens her questions to a gurgled mumble. "Why? What makes me so special? So different from the parade of women who all want a piece of Rick Grimes? Why would you do all of this for me? Now?" she asks, raising her eyebrows high in question. And I get it. I do. I wondered the same about her the night she gave herself to me that very first time. Why me? Why now? I still wonder it when I'm alone with my thoughts, my insecurities. What makes me more special than that other guy?

I don't want that for her though. Hell I don't want it for myself. Every day I have to remind myself that this thing between us is destined. It has to be. It's not just the regular affection a guy may have for girl. It's not the simple need to sate my sexual desires with a female. It's love. And this love has kept me awake at night, tossing and turning, hoping, yearning, planning a life for us. This love makes me anxious to set my sights on her. To hear her voice. To go against what has been predestined as my future for years to follow the girl of my dreams. Michonne is the special girl. Everything about her is special to me, and because of that this love is special. This is no ordinary love.

Pulling her into me I simply cannot get close enough to her. My hold swallows her, keeps her under the cover of my arms and my body, shielding her from her insecurities.

"Just like you chose me that night, gave yourself to me, let me be your first. This is me choosing you. I can't turn back time and make you my first. God I wish I could. But this is me telling you that you are my first love. I'm choosing a future with you for as long as you'll have me. Giving us the chance to make this something…permanent."

"Permanent? Like marriage permanent?"

"Not yet. Maybe some day?" With hope in my heart, a feeling that I pray Michonne can read in the sincerity of my words, in my eyes, I offer her something I have never extended to another person ever. "I would like that. If-if that's something you want. Someday I mean, not now, but eventually I want you to be my wife. I do."

"That's… I don't know what to say, Rick." Michonne shakes her head back and forth, her teeth worrying the corner of her lips. Nabbing it, pulling them in a tight press between her lips.

"You don't have to say anything right now, Michonne. I'm not proposing this minute. I don't have a fancy little promise ring or nothing. Just my heart, my word, my intentions. If this isn't what you want now, just tell me what you do want. I'll make sure you have it. I didn't mean to come on so strong." I laugh, and drop my head back. I've said way too much. Too soon. I'm planning her future for her just like that other guy did, and that's not fair to her. She's young, still has a lot of life to live. On her terms. I have to give her the space to do that I realize, and just as I'm thinking I need to pull this back, stop trying to hold on so tight, she snatches me off the edge of my surging melancholy.

Throwing her arms around me, wrapping me tight in her hold, Michonne leans in and whispers across my lips, "I-I want you to come to LA with me."

XXXXXX

"Grandad! What's going on with you?"

Giving me a quick wink and grin, my grandfather dips two fingers into his tobacco tin and pinches off a small dab that he places underneath his lip, close to his gums. "Same stuff, different day. New pains in my ass."

Dropping a kiss to the top of his head balding head, only a few stark white strands remaining, I take a seat in the wooden chair next to his. "Going that good huh?"

"Yeah I guess. You're looking awful chipper today. Been with Michonne I suppose?" Focusing his weary blue eyes at me over his wire framed glasses, my grandfather gives me a sly, knowing smile.

"Yes, sir. She's down in the stables chatting with Maggie. Gonna take Flame out for a quick ride while I chat with you and my dad."

"Is that right?" He doesn't sound surprised. Everyone knows that Michonne's favorite place on the farm is in the stables with her horse. For her 10th birthday my grandparents gifted her with a horse of her own, which seemed fitting since she and Glenn learned to ride right here along with Jeff and I when we were all kids. "Flame could use a good ride. Michonne hasn't been out this way in a while. Guess she's got something, or someone else taking up all her time. You know anything about that?"

"Yes, sir." My smile is spreading wide across my face, the infectious joy in me probably oozing from my pores as well. I don't care. Last night after our talk, Michonne and I had the best sex yet, right there on the floor in my apartment. With my bed and other furniture already loaded on the moving truck, we didn't have a choice, and Michonne didn't seem to mind. Well not until this morning when she saw she had a bit of a rug burn on the small of her back. Nevertheless, she was still happy, with me, with our plans for the future. And I have to admit, it's got me on cloud nine as well. At this point I just need to address one more thing with my father and granddad.

"Oooh wee! Look at that smile. You're just as happy as a pig in shit aren't you?"

Not even bothering to try and conceal my good mood I have to laugh at my grandfather calling me out. "Ha! Yes, sir, I suppose I am."

"Good for you. I heard you and my favorite girl had finally decided to stop pussyfootin' around. Always hoped you would."

"Thank you, sir. I love her."

"Yeah, I know." Leaning towards me, he lightly slaps the side of my face with his palm. "Your father is out in the woodshop working on a new crib. I hope the way you're grinning don't mean your sinning is gonna cause him to make another new crib anytime soon."

"No, sir. That's definitely not my plan."

Relaxing back onto his chair, he hooks one thumb into the elastic of his red suspenders, and puckers his lips to spit the refuse from his chewing tobacco into a cup, then gives me a long sideways look. "Well alright then. Then you ready to get to work?" he asks, reaching for his cane and beginning to rise slowly from his chair in front of my father's large mahogany desk. A desk that has been in this office, in my family, for longer than I can remember. Jeff and I used to play in here while my dad worked. Underneath the desk also used to be Michonne's favorite hiding place when we played hide and seek. She always hid here or in the horse barn, and I found her first every time. My girl may be brilliant, but she is predictable. At least Jeff and Glenn used to try and mix it up and hide their small bodies into more inventive places than underneath a desk. Matter of fact, I can remember when Michonne, Jeff, and I spent the better part of an afternoon looking all over for Glenn, only to find him in the back of the kitchen pantry asleep with a bag of potato chips tucked under his arm.

Stomping into the office with puffs of sawdust kicking up from his cowboy boots, and billowing off his plaid button up and blue jeans, my father's larger than life presence centers the attention in the room on him.

"That's a good question, Pop. Nice to see you finally made it down here, Rick. I expected you this morning." My father grinds out, clearly irritated by my absence.

"Stopped off in the city to get some things squared away at Mom's house. Chat with her a little bit."

Taking a moment to sip from his favorite coffee cup, a ceramic mug that Jeff and I made when we were kids, emblazoned with some crudely painted hammers and nails and the scrawl of young children, dubbing him the 'Best Dad Ever'. "I see. Does your presence here today mean you are ready to get to work? I have a few orders for some rocking chairs which should be easy enough for you, a credenza, and a roll top desk. Could use your help on all of these, and I need some assistance with this Quicken thing. Maggie loaded it on my computer and I can't figure this shit out. Should be a breeze for you, college boy."

"I want to talk to you and Granddad about that."

Nudging my shin with the rubber end of his cane, my grandfather pushes me to go ahead and say what's on my mind. "Spit it out, boy. I know this has something to do with my favorite girl, so just get it over with."

At the latter end of his sixties, my grandfather is definitely one of my favorite people. Where my father is known for being a quiet man, smooth with the women, and good with his hands, my grandfather is more of the big hearted, loquacious type. A tall, heavyset man, a big joker, his loud voice, and awful jokes usually introduce his presence in a room before he even makes it past the threshold. With large hands, and elongated fingers that have grown stiff with arthritis, joints locked in seizing pain from the many years of furniture making, hammering, drilling, sanding, and tending to a farm, he has served as the widowed head of the Grimes clan for many years, taking on the business that his father before him helmed. He is the last remaining brother out of 13 kids, only survived longer by his sister Tammy, my cousin Shane's grandmother, who lives just up the road with his parents.

Honest and straightforward, probably to a fault, he's one of those people who just really has love for everyone. One would think coming from such a small town, one that he's only left a handful of times, most notably to serve in the Vietnam war, that he wouldn't be so welcoming of folks not like him. Folks like Michonne and her African-American family, and their Korean-American son. But he's just not like that. He's too soft hearted to keep anyone at arm's length, and because he thrives when he's around others, and hates to be alone, I can't imagine him any other way. And honestly, I've inherited a bit of that myself I think. That and his romantic side.

Only five years have passed since my grandmother died, and not a day goes by that my grandfather, Boden Samuel Grimes, doesn't speak of her in some way. To note how much he misses her. Her smile. Her friendship and her cooking, especially her homemade shepherd's pie. How her sewing was beautiful, and she should have rightfully one that quilting competition in 1978, but Big Butt Bertha Hale had somehow bewitched the mayor and gotten his vote. My grandparents married early, both only sixteen years old at the time, they often said they simply never had eyes for anyone else.

I suppose its that perceptive, knowing way about my grandfather that caused him to look upon a pretty little black girl, only five years old, and see in her something that deemed her forever and ever as his favorite girl. Same, Granddad. Same.

Despite the fact that at his first introduction to her, our first Thanksgiving living in Atlanta, he was told that she punched me in the nose, it seemed to only endear her to him even more. He was just taken with her. Her spunk. How unafraid of the world she was to mix it up with the boys. Tenacious, forward, always ready to speak her mind. Sharing Thanksgiving with the Anderson family, Michonne walked right up to my grandfather, not waiting on an adult to introduce her, and offered him her hand and her name, and told him that he looked just like J. Jonah Jameson from her Spiderman comic book, and wondered if he was as ornery as he was. Her parents were mortified, mine were amused, and my grandparents loved her from that moment on, with my grandmother noting that yes, he is certainly as ornery if not more, even though she had no clue who or what a Spiderman or a J. Jonah Jameson was.

From then on, in my grandfather's mind, she was his grandchild every bit as much as Jeff and I were. He and my grandmother used to keep us all out at the farm during many hot summer days, keeping a watchful eye on us as we swam and fished in the pond on their property. Climbed trees, played games, and learned to ride horses. Just thinking over the highlight reel of my past, I smile to see how intertwined in the story of me that Michonne is. Her life threaded into the very fabric of who I am. These memories bring me back to what I need to discuss with my father and grandfather. Why I'm actually here.

Making eye contact with first my granddad, and then my father, giving them both the respect and maturity they expect from me, I clear my throat and answer my grandfather's perceptive comment. "Well, yes, sir it does. Uh, I know you both expect me to move on down here and begin working now that I'm done with school, but, um I have a different plan."

"Is that right?" my father asks, skepticism in his clear blue narrowed gaze, sharp and focused behind the haze of his recently lit cigar's smoke.

"Yes, sir. See, Michonne leaves in a month to move to LA. You know she's going to school there for creative writing and illustration at USC and I'm going with her."

Reclining in his desk chair and crossing his hands behind his head, my father appears neither surprised nor upset. Curious maybe. Concerned even. But not taken aback at all. "You are?"

"Richard, you heard what the boy said."

"Yes, Dad, I heard him, but I just wanted to be sure I heard what I thought I heard. See, I thought I heard my oldest son say he's going to forget about our deal, and his responsibility to this family, to chase a girl."

"My favorite girl, Richard, so watch your mouth." Chuckling, my grandfather eases over towards me, and reaching out to move the collar of my shirt aside he taps the column of my neck with his index finger. "His too if that love bite on his neck is any indication."

Embarrassed, I try not to allow my grandfather's discovery, or my father's tersely spoken words to throw me off.

"Dad, I can't let her leave without me. I won't. I'm sorry to disappoint you both, but I feel like my real destiny is with Michonne. Wherever she is."

"Now them is some bold words, Rick."

"Foolish words. Foolish decision. You're being a romantic, son. Throwing away your life for a girl. A pretty girl. A smart girl. A girl I myself am very fond of. But ya know, son, I should have known this was coming. I've sat in that same chair, and had the same conversation with my father. Isn't that right, Pop?"

"Sure is." My grandfather pauses to spit again, the sound reminding me immediately of the smell of the Skoal packet he has faithfully kept in his pocket for as long as I've known him, and the one time Michonne and I decided to try it. Worst. Taste. Ever. "If I remember correctly, Richard Sr. here came in one fine day, stars in his eyes too, to tell me he was taking his family and heading to the city. Wanted to give his wife and his boys a different life up there in Atlanta."

"That's right. I did that for your mother, for you and Jeff. And for me too, not gonna lie. I thought I could be a different man up there. Have my own store, big house. Be my own man, not just a Grimes. You see what happened up there don't you, Rick?"

"Ray Charles saw what happened up there, boy. Too much chasing skirts, not enough selling furniture. Had to dip your pen in another woman's ink too if I remember correctly."

Scoffing at my grandfather's rehashing of his transgressions, my father sits up straight, seemingly prepared to answer for his crimes. "I'm not proud of that, Pop. It happened, but that was after Dana forgot about me. Got herself that job at the bank, new friends, hobbies. I was at that damned store night and day trying to make it work, and she was out drinking cosmos with the girls and shit. I messed around, yep, I did. One bad choice, Rick, that's all it took. One decision, Rick. One path taken for her. It set all of that in motion. I came back here alone. No family, no wife, no store. Back to the little shop on main street, and to my daddy's farm. Not a married man. Not a successful business man. Just a man. Still making furniture. That gonna be you? LA chew you up and spit you out, send you back home with your expensive education, a broken heart, and your tail tucked between your legs?"

"No, sir. Michonne is my home now. Wherever she is, that's where I belong. We're gonna make this work. Everybody keeps saying they know we we're meant to be, so this is me acknowledging that." I shrug, probably coming off a little petulant at my father's brusque description of how he assumes this story will end. Not if I have my way it won't.

Without even looking my way, my grandfather points his long finger my way and interjects. "Calm down, Rick. You're getting your knickers all twisted cause of what your father said, but lets all stop going around our ass to get to our elbow and spill the truth here. This is you making sure another man doesn't hitch his wagon to hers. I get it. You're fixin' to get your life in order, but hers is just getting started, and you're trying to lock my favorite girl down. I think your father just doesn't wanna see this all backfire on you. That's all."

"It won't."

"Hmph. I hope so, son. I do. Might sound like I'm angry, bitter. Nah, that ain't it. Disappointed maybe, cause I know what you can do. You never give up. You ain't like me, Rick. You're your mother's son. A fighter. You go give LA a shot and see what happens. Maybe you'll have better luck than I did." With a rap of his knuckles on the desktop, my father announces the conversation is officially over, leaving behind only the smoke from his cigar.

Head bowed I'm somewhat conflicted by my father's odd well wishes.

"You go chase your girl, Rick. Either way, your father's story is his. It ain't yours. Don't let fear of failure keep you from your freedom. Or your girl. This will all be here if you fail, but something tells me, you won't."


	5. Chapter 5 - Michonne

Chapter 5 – Michonne

4 years later…

“Michonne, babe, are you here?”

“In the bedroom!”

At the sound of his voice, Lily, the teacup Yorkie that Rick got me for my birthday shuffles down carefully from the bed where she’s hugged against my side, to welcome Rick home. 

“Hey, Lily girl. What’s your mama doing huh? You been a good girl today?”

I can hear him clicking his tongue to call to the tiny dog, then the sound of her toenails clacking against the hard wood floors disappears, as I’m sure he’s scooping her up as she begins yapping in response to his questions. His footsteps grow louder as he moves further into the apartment, and begins shuffling around in the living room. Probably dropping his work bag on the kitchen table, and kicking off his loafers. Then the tired groan of relief as he exhales at the feeling of being home washing over him. Relaxing his muscles. Easing the tension headache forming in his head from his lengthy commute home, creating those fine crinkles in his forehead and around his eyes. Most of his work days end this way, with his routine so predictable that I don’t have to physically be in the room to witness it to know how it goes. 

Los Angeles is a beautiful town. We love it here for the most part. The weather is great, the views are spectacular, and being so close to the water is fun. But, the traffic, and the cost of living nearly kill all of the other pros making our existence here an interesting tradeoff. 

I’m still in school full time, my current job which is really more of an internship doesn’t pay much, and Rick’s salary is only in the mid fifties, so we struggle a bit financially. Not as much as we did at first, when we were still attempting to maintain two separate households. But after we got over ourselves, and our self-imposed drama, and I moved in with Rick full time, we began doing a little better. Admittedly not much, but better than before, which is good because things are about to change again. 

Not long after moving here to the west coast, Rick and I came face to face with the stark realities of change. Evolution. Things are better now though. We don’t dwell on the hiccups. Just keep moving forward, embracing the peaks and valleys in the progression of our lives together. 

With Rick working out near south LA in Leimert Park, and me mainly on USC’s campus a few miles southwest of downtown finishing up my capstone project, and working my internship not far from there, we have worked our way into a schedule. Getting up nearly two hours earlier than either of us was ever used to before, and going in opposite directions, meeting up in the evenings at home, or out with friends. We are for lack of a better word, settled. 

“Hey, sweetheart. How long have you been home?”

Focusing in on him as he comes through our bedroom door, I have to stop myself from the breathy giggle that wants to erupt from my lips at just the sight of him in his khaki slacks and sky blue button up. The soft coloring of the shirt makes his eyes pop and appear as precious and coveted as the deep shading of lapis lazuli. Which makes all the sense in the world I suppose as I skim his patrician features, marveling at how each of them alone is beautiful, and together creates, at least to me, the most handsome man ever. Then considering that the stone is eyes so closely resembles represents honor, wisdom, honesty, all qualities that I would attribute to Rick. 

Even though I’m a bit fatigued, I can’t help but respond to the stirring in my body for him. The telltale flutter in my heart that watching him watch him, surveying me in the same loving manner that I hope he recognizes as I gaze upon him, my emotions turning to a puddle whenever he uses that deep baritone of his to call me sweetheart. Will I ever not be so in love with this man? So taken with how handsome he is? Feel so lucky that through years of friendship, we have found each other on the other side of this rainbow as lovers?

Realizing at the slight tilt of his head, that my dumbfounded perusal of my favorite guy has left me forgetting to answer his question. Shaking my head a bit, and chuckling at myself I finally answer him. “A few hours. I left work early. Just feel icky. Tired.” I mumble from where I’ve dug myself deep down under the blankets on our king sized bed. Stretching my limbs, groaning at the release of tension and draining my muscles, I get a little shiver at the cool tingle from the soft sheets and blankets brushing against my warm naked skin. 

Stopping to take a seat on the edge of the bed next to where I’m propped against a mound of pillows, Rick holds Lily in one arm and leans in to drop a kiss to first my forehead, then lowering his gaze to my lips, follows with his kisses there as well. Smoothing the back of one hand over my cheek where my face is poked out from the cluster of blankets surrounding me, he gives me a concerned smile. “You’ve been working very hard lately. You could use a break. Kleinman didn’t have a problem with you leaving early did he?”

On the tail end of a long yawn, I cover my mouth and mumble, “Actually no he didn’t. I submitted my final draft for the illustrations on his latest issue, which he said he loved. And he looked over my storyboards for Zombie Slayer and said this might be one of my best issues, so there really wasn’t much to do after I hit publish on that sucker. Now I’m all yours.”

“I’ll take it.” A brilliantly white grin, wide and reaching to the soft crinkles at the corners of his eyes, curves Rick’s pink lips “And I’m proud of you. Everyone loves Zombie Slayer, just like I told you they would. Most of the kids I work with read it. They all think it’s pretty awesome that ‘The Famous Michonne Anderson’ is my girlfriend.” His eyes glide lightly over my face, as the deep coloring seems to sparkle with what Sasha once called the insipid sappiness of a lovesick man, and his smile grows into something even more joyful. More pretty than any man should be allowed to be, the gentle lines and angles of his handsome face evidence how much he’s matured. Age wise. Personally. Professionally. 

While my online comic series, Zombie Slayer, has gotten wildly popular, the kudos for that success are not solely my own. Rick’s love and support, over the bumps and bruises of our time here, have earned him more than the right to be proud of what I staunchly assert is a shared achievement. During my first year here in Los Angeles I was pretty overwhelmed with the demands of college, living with roommates, navigating a new city, and being in a new relationship. A decidedly grown up relationship. Even though Rick had been my friend for most of my life, we didn’t know each other as adults. As lovers. There was a huge adjustment period for us, and admittedly we didn’t always manage the stressors so well. 

It wasn’t until one night, nearly a year after struggling to maintain our new normal, when Rick dropped by my apartment unannounced, did it all come to a head…

“Mmmm… This wine is good, Zeke. How the hell can you afford it though?”

“The producer for this commercial I just shot was throwing this party at his house. Huge mansion up in Malibu. Anyway, he said he invited me and some of the other actors to add some ‘diverse’ faces to the crowd. You know to show some of his colleagues he invited that he’s down with the brown I guess. He didn’t use those words but I know what it means when someone says it would be nice for some new faces to be there. Industry speak for we need our black folks to show up and give us some street cred!” He gives me a knowing look, then continues, “Anyway, so he was giving away bottles of wine as like, party favors that night. So I took two bottles and decided to share them with my favorite Georgia peach.”

“Well I guess since it worked in our favor we will just be thankful for your brown face and enjoy it! I really needed a night to kind of relieve some stress, ya know?” Sipping from the glass in my hand, I enjoy the slight bitterness of the dark Cabernet Sauvignon easing down my throat, warming my chest. I’m fairly new to wine as previously my party girl drink of choice to get quickly hammered was a few shots of tequila. But I’m trying to refine myself these days. And the tart acidity of the bold drink is helping me to forget the eerie sense of being off balance lately. 

“Come on, girl, lets get rid of some more of that stress and dance.” Reaching for my hand, Ezekiel wiggles his fingers to encourage my exit from the comfy couch where I have been posted up since he knocked on my door thirty minutes ago, announcing his arrival with two bottles of wine, and an old DVD of Mel Gibson’s Hamlet to watch and get a little drunk. I’ve never seen this version, and though Mel Gibson is not really an actor that I enjoy or follow, I have to admit that he looks pretty damn good as the sulking Dane out for revenge. And well, Zeke does his very best to bring the movie alive in my living room with his own performance of his favorite lines. 

“Zeke, I’m not in a happy dancing mood right now.”

“Michonne, of course you are my dear.” He scoffs at my reluctance, and pulls me into his chest with one arm, and presses pause on the remote with the other, halting the movie as Mel Gibson sobs and rails at his fate as he realizes his uncle has murdered his father. Staring down into my face, his lips first stopping at my eyes, then hovering lower to my lips, then back to my eyes, Ezekiel takes a deep breath. “Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.”

Shaking my head, I try to play off the not so subtle undertone of his words, “Zeke…”  
“Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service. Shakespeare says so eloquently what I cannot fully explain, Michonne. Just know that if you let me, I would make you my queen.”  
“You’re a very good friend, Zeke.” Tapping my fingers lightly on his chest, I’m trying to ease the sting of my rebuttal.   
“Yes, is that not often the beginning of the story of lovers?”  
“Ah…” he’s got me there, and I’m smarting a little at how he’s skillfully used my relationship with Rick to somehow parallel our own friendship. I see what you did there, Zeke. 

“No matter, dance with me, Michonne. You’re going to have to move those prettly little feet.” He grins, his wide smile affectionate, mirth tugging at the corners. 

“Zeke, there’s no music playing.” I remind him. 

Switching back to his regular voice, he chuckles. “Oh yeah! Hold on.”

Rushing over to the speaker that rests on the little side table where his phone sits, Zeke clicks through a few options and lists on the screen of his phone, then selecting a song, cranks up the volume, and instantly a catchy old school jam I’ve heard my parents play before erupts into the quiet room. 

“Outstanding   
Girl, you knock me out  
Excited   
It makes me want to shout…”

At first I stick to my guns. I’m really not in a happy dancing mood. Sasha ditched hanging out with me tonight in favor of some new guy she met when she went to the emergency room a few weeks ago for bronchitis. I suppose I can’t blame her. Bob is a pretty nice guy. He’s older like she prefers, and he’s a doctor. They have been out together nearly every night this week, despite her hectic schedule as a budding actress, her third shift job tending the bar at a club on campus, and the full time class load she’s pursuing at USC. She seems to be balancing things quite well here, and I have to admit that I’m a little envious at her ability to do that and still remain herself. In fact, Sasha has attempted to talk me out of this hiatus I’ve foolishly pursued with Rick, noting that it isn’t everyday that you see a love like ours. And more ominously, to be careful what you ask for.

Finding myself alone tonight, as I have many nights since Rick began finding his own way without me, that little voice in the back of my head, the one with the wings and not the horns, gently whispers in my ear that Sasha is probably right. Posing the question that teeters on the tip of the cupid’s arrow piercing my heart, asking me when I’m going to push my pride aside and get my man back. On the other hand, the one with the horns is no help, and censures the very idea of bowing out of this ill-devised separation, instead encouraging me to go even further and see what kind of trouble a single woman can really get herself into out here.

I shook off the naughty voice’s suggestion, but I do wince at the simple fact that I am still alone. 

With Paul and Aaron also out, I was initially hoping to catch up with Rick, but he wasn’t available either, only offering me a quick text response that he was busy with a work thing. Which seems to be the impasse we find ourselves at a lot lately. Me running around on campus, him saving the youth of Los Angeles one community based program at a time. It’s not that I’m not proud of him for throwing himself into his work. He’s doing such an amazing job. But if I’m honest I do miss him, and how close we were when we first moved out here. Before.

Upon arriving in Los Angeles it seemed like Rick was wherever I needed him to be, whenever I needed him. Driving me around town, attempting to learn the layout of things together, even after spending long days working and driving between the five locations where he managed the after school programs. If I called or said I needed him he was there, scooping me up, making sure I was safe, happy, had whatever I needed. It was almost like he could sense the anxiety in my bones from the newness of being in a strange place, unhinged from the only world I’ve ever known, from the family that has loved and nurtured me. It was even common for Rick to spend a lot of his nights at my apartment, even though the main office that he worked out of was around the corner from his apartment on the other side of town. 

Inseparable is the best way I could describe it. And it felt like old times again with he and I running around LA like we used to do in Atlanta. Me holding on so tightly to him. Him allowing it. But it was different now. Our circumstances are different.

It became a running joke with my roommates, Aaron and Paul, that Rick was more of a bodyguard than a boyfriend with the way he would soberly stare down other men who tried to get close to me. Even on purely friendly terms. I hated the joke, even though I had to admit that I allowed Rick’s possessive behavior. Delighted in it sometimes. Rick didn’t care how Aaron and Paul teased us, probably liked the comparison even, though eventually it began to rub me wrong. Made me feel childish. Immature. Like some fragile, porcelain doll kept high on a shelf. Or a little girl who was lost and unable to adjust to my new life in a manner that was more acceptable than hanging on to my boyfriend as though he were some sort of childhood blankie. I was losing my purpose. I was losing me. Out of fear of losing him.

It wasn’t just my unease about Rick finding fault with choosing me, or choosing LA. It was more than that. Lying in wait behind this new world’s curtain number one was Rick. My faithful, loving, best friend, boyfriend. He represented what was comforting and familiar. I needed that when I missed my family. When I got feedback on my homework and it wasn’t always as glowing as I was used to it being the majority of my past academic career. And if I’m being honest I felt like I owed him my time. Rick moved out here for me. Gave up every certainty in his life, for a world teetering on hopes and dreams, just to be with me and to give us a chance at this new romantic life together. 

Behind door number two was a complete unknown. What would a life on my own terms even look like? How could I throw myself into this new existence, completely untethered from my old one, and still survive? I simply wasn’t equipped to do both. At least that’s what I thought.

But didn’t I have to try? I questioned myself and motivations constantly, until finally I made up my mind, and I tried to quit him in a sense. Just give us a break from each other. From old expectations and new demands. This wasn’t about Rick. Rick was perfect. Understanding. Loving. Trying his best not to suffocate me even as he was alone himself. That was the problem. He made it so easy for me to transplant my Georgia state of mind to California. Rick was everything I could have ever hoped for. So much so that he couldn’t see how it was hurting him too. How I was preventing him from living a full life as well. I had done this. Me. A toddler unwilling to part with her pacifier. As usual I greedily took advantage, and accepted whatever Rick was offering. This was about me using him as a crutch. About my inability to really embrace college life. To cast myself into the sea of new faces, friends, and experiences, and live. 

Michonne had forgotten how to be the fearless, unafraid girl who had applied to a school on the other side of the country, simply on the strength that I was convinced of my own ability to make it big in a town that chews people up and spits them out for a living. Where had that girl gone? I blamed her disappearance on love. On the comfort of it that made me complacent, fearful to move outside of its embrace. Fearful that if I stepped too far away from Rick I would lose him. To regret that he had come here for me. Lose him to the beautiful California women, thin, sun kissed, blondes, all seemingly lying in wait to snatch him up should I ever be so foolish as to relinquish my hold on him. Even just a tiny bit. Yeah I remember his thing for the actress Scarlet Johansson, and I remember what kind of girls he used to like before me.

The break was my idea. A concept I devised on my own after an admonishment from the professor of my Introductory Innovator’s Forum course where I had been asked to research and present on contemporary artistic solutions to the social and political divide. After calling me into her office and criticizing me for what she deemed lazy, permissive, pedantic thinking that only supports archaic constructs of what collaboration currently looks like, versus opening my mind to what it truly could be. To be an artistic innovator, a truly forward thinker, I would have to release my thoughts from what I currently know, and what is comfortable. I had to break my mindset in order to think freely.

Somehow that equated to my personal situation and I decided unilaterally that a break would give me exactly that. I would be free. Rick would be free. But we could still see each other when we could make time. If we could make time. But there would be no hard and fast rules. Our relationship could be approached in a progressive way. And maybe this would even afford him some space for himself. Of course Rick argued with me at first, tried to plead his case. He was hurt, upset. Angry even. Accusatory, wondering if there was another guy who had taken his place. But in the end, after the tears, mine, and the counterarguments, his, he couldn’t dispute the hard facts of my logic. I had to figure out who I was, and how to make this life truly my own. There had to be a healthy way to do that, and hopefully, maybe, in the end still salvage what was left of us. 

I promised that I still loved him. He vowed that he felt the same. 

We stumbled through it. We still are. Stumbling that is, through the concept of how to be together, but not. How to love someone so desperately that they are apart of what keeps you alive, but needing to unplug from them at the same time. 

I didn’t fold though. I didn’t retreat from the challenge. I acclimated. I made new friends. I took on a work study job in the library. I studied and partied, and even dated a few guys here and there. A friend of Aaron’s named Siddiq, who though handsome, and kind, was the perfect man for someone, just not me. I survived on a diet of denial and sacrifice, only calling and texting my love when I absolutely couldn’t bear not hearing his voice. Seeing him occasionally when the pain of not laying my eyes on his face or feeling his touch physically disabled me. I missed him all the time. Missing him now. 

It did work in some respects though. I seem to have hit my academic stride at school. My work gaining me some pretty consistent kudos. One of my illustrations, a charcoal smudging of Rick that I finally completed earning me a spot in a lauded USC showcase of student art, reserved mainly for post-graduates. It felt good to succeed with my schoolwork, with my social life, but I fear that I’m failing at love. And that hurts most of all.

I may have taken this break up too far. He’s living a life without me. My periodic crashes into his life are probably not enough to sustain him. He calls and texts me still. Still ends every sporadic date with a kiss and the much desired words to satisfy my slothful heart. I love you, Michonne. Always have. Always will. Haven’t heard them in awhile though. Yeah. I may have taken this break up too far.

It’s what has me off kilter now, and in my shorts, I teeter a bit in Zeke’s arms, feeling the dizzying effects of a slow coming buzz clouding my brain. But I make it to the middle of the carpeted living room, watching as Zeke momentarily releases me and pushes the coffee table aside. Then he’s back in front of me, and I feel the steadying structure of his hands around my waist as he pulls me in close to his chest, probably closer than he should. 

“Girl, you're looking sweeter now  
You got it every day, girl  
Wish that I could love you now  
In a special way…”

Mouthing the words to the song, his deep voice carrying the lyrics well, I allow my eyes to drink him in as he’s grooving his body back and forth, closely against mine. I settle on him for a thoughtful moment. Ezekiel is a handsome man with his café latte coloring, nicely put together body, prematurely graying locs, and a bright easygoing smile. While I know that he seems to have romantic inclinations towards me, I have tried to keep him at a distance. I don’t feel the same way about him that he probably feels for me. We hang out every once in awhile, we’ve kissed. But nothing past that. Hell even the few kisses I allowed felt odd. False against my lips.

On the other hand, I do enjoy hanging out with him as a friend. Working at the Los Angeles Zoo and Botanical Gardens during the day, and as an actor at night, he always seems to be in the know about what’s going on in the city, and he’s constantly prepared to pull me into the fold of his fun loving existence. Ezekiel is carefree and spontaneous, dedicated to simply living in the moment. In my opinion, all of that is a bonus in his favor, regardless of his often ridiculous backslide into Shakespearean prose at the oddest times. 

I’m not as put off by his casual drift into theatrics as Sasha is. She’s not really a fan of his, always commenting that he’s a little too dramatic, too LA, too always around for her taste. She might be right. But he’s not permanent. Zeke is the temporary methadone fix to help me detox from my dependence to Rick. In my heart there is still only Rick. Always has been. Always will be. 

But today, when I’m exhausted from working on my online comic series, when I’m struggling to find a mentor, a better paying job, and smarting from the lack of time the man I love has had for me lately, I just need a fun way to fall back from everything. At least until I can figure out how to fix what I may have broken.

“You light my fire  
I feel alive with you, baby  
You blow my mind  
I'm satisfied…”

Allowing Zeke to direct the winding of my hips to the music, feeling the catchy vibe of the old school classic moving through me, loosening my limbs, I’m smiling. Sensing a freedom underneath the melancholy I’ve felt since I last saw Rick two weeks ago. We’ve both been too busy. So for now, being here, letting loose is the closest I have gotten to feeling like myself, relaxed. For that reason, I lean into Ezekiel, and allow the wine and the music to soothe what ails me. 

Hands over my head, I close my eyes to the dull brightness of the single lamp giving off just the slightest bit of illumination. Just enough for me to see the impressive whiteness of Ezekiel’s smile directed just at me. Aglow with the same affection and appreciation I see glimmering in his eyes. It momentarily releases me from my woes, until I sense his arms growing tighter around my waist, hands traveling south. 

I’m not that drunk though. Not that free from Rick. These hands are strange. They are not the hands that belong resting possessively clutching the cusp of my ass. It’s in the second that his kind smile and eyes transform with something else clouding them, his lids drooping to focus them in on my lips, my face, that I skip my own eyes away from his, that I’m literally saved by the bell. 

“Leave it.” Ezekiel softly pleads in a smooth deep cadence, his smile never faltering. 

Gently pushing Zeke’s hands from my body, I give him a quick reassuring grin of my own. Moving away from him and towards the front door, I offer a few words over my shoulder. “Hold on. Let me get this.” Pulling the door open, I find my best friend standing there. As handsome as ever.

Turning his head towards the opened door, from where his gaze was focused on the parking lot before, as though he was contemplating walking away, Rick gives me a quick nod of his head. “Hey. I heard the music out here in the hall. I’m not disturbing you am I?” he asks hesitantly, as though he is somewhat unsure of his decision to come here. Hands shoved into his jeans pocket, Rick doesn’t make the expected move to sweep his eyes inside of my apartment behind me, to see what’s going on. Doesn’t drive his eyes over my body in that familiar way I’m used to. Instead he keeps his blue gaze painfully still, focused on mine. His tone cordial. Almost professional, distant. 

Sound doesn’t leave my mouth. I cannot form the words to answer his question. Seeing him here has my blood rushing through my body. I want to hug him. Kiss him. Wrap my body around his firm, muscular form and tell him I love him. Ask him if he’s missed me. Perhaps I don’t even want to know the answer to that question. Life has carried us in its palm here, to another coast, the other side of the country, together. But it has also separated us. Kept us alone together. 

“Um, no. I was just uh listening to music. Watching a movie.” In seconds I can sense that my form is shadowed by Ezekiel looming behind me, and the waving cascade of Rick’s eyes looms higher and focuses above my head and behind me to narrow in on him. Watching is all I can do at this moment. Waiting for him to do something. Say something. Elicit that spark of possessiveness that has always been so characteristic of his personality. Show me that he still cares. There is no sign of the tell tale flare of his thin nostrils. Pursing of his lush pink lips. His countenance does not betray him. Rick’s subtle smile remains unfailingly calm, as though he has simply just dropped in on an old friend. 

Jerking his head upwards in the way that men do towards Ezekiel, Rick takes a long, deep breath. “How you doing?”

“Good.”

“Rick, I um… Would you like to come in?”

Raising his hands, palms facing me as though he would object to my invitation, Rick’s stare doesn’t leave where Ezekiel stands. “I don’t want to interrupt your…thing.”

“No interruption, man. Come on in.” Ezekiel places his hands on my shoulders and moves me aside, maintaining the connection long after Rick has come inside, and I’ve shut the door behind him. 

The music is still playing, creating an ambiance that is more jovial than the awkward tension in the room calls for. 

Targeting his stare at first on where Ezekiel maintains his post behind me, appearing to protect me from something. Someone. Rick’s face is flushing, reddening despite his unwillingness to express the emotion he’s clearly holding inside. 

“Looks like you had a nice evening going here. Wine. Movie. Music.” Gesturing to the bottles of wine on the side table next to our glasses, and the movie paused on the television, Rick’s doing his best to remain unflinching, demeanor stoic, distanced. But then there is also a slight flicker of something heated lying in wait there in his eyes, just below the cool ice of his stare as he looks my way and finally sweeps my form, taking note of my tight fitting, heather gray USC t-shirt, and jean shorts. A pair that he always says he loves but hates. Loves because of the brevity of their length, stopping just below my ass, and showcasing my legs. Hates for the same reason. 

It’s the laser focus of his glare that makes me nervous, causing my words to become a stilted mash of only slightly intelligible phrases. “Just blowing off some steam. Wine is Zeke’s. And mine, but uh-”

“You don’t have to explain your personal life to me, Michonne. In fact, I’ll make this quick. Here is the business card for someone I think you should reach out to. His name is Richard Kleinman. He writes-”

“Graphic novels I know. He’s really popular. Written some issues of X-Men for Marvel. The Waking Immortals. How did you get his card?”

“He’s sponsoring one of the after school programs I’m launching. It’s a graphic arts and creative writing workshop type of thing. Anyway, he and I were just out for drinks to discuss the structure of the program, and I told him my Michonne writes comics. Does illustrations. Showed him some of your drawings on my phone. He wants you to reach out to him about a possible paying job apprenticing with him. He seemed real excited about what he saw. So…here you go. Call him.” Extending his hand out to me, the stiff card balances between his long fingers, the once flat disinterest in his features is now animated into a delighted expression. Bringing back to life the pretty boy handsomeness that I adore. His hair is a little longer than I’m used to, with loose chocolate curls tucked behind his ears. Beard is growing in, and he’s wearing his black framed glasses, giving him the true LA hipster look. With his blue jean button up straining across his wide chest, I’m not going to lie, he’s causing a familiar ache in my belly, the telling tightness of my nipples in the cups of my bra. The heated exhaust of my anxiety at him finding me in my apartment on what appears to be a date with Ezekiel, sputtering to an aroused stall. 

Inching out of Ezekiel’s hold, I amble slowly towards Rick, and never look back. “Zeke, can you excuse us for a moment? I need to talk to Rick for a second.”

“Sure, yes, that will be fine. I will be here when you return, Michonne.” He answers jovially, but skepticism causes just the tiniest hint of a waver in his voice.

I grab Rick’s extended hand, catching the jolt of something kinetic, a thrilling electricity at the slightest touch of our skin. Circling my fingers around his wrist, I pull him towards my bedroom. 

“Mich-” Before Rick can fully get my name out, I’m pushing him down on my bed and kissing him. Full on. My lips fuse over his, sucking in his excited breaths, tugging at his lips, tangling my tongue with his. The fervor of my hungry movements caught him off guard, but I can tell by the way his hands are clutching my ass and my neck, that he’s just as famished as I am. Resting his hand possessively over my breasts, kneading them roughly in his palm, Rick finally pulls his mouth away from mine. “What are you doing?” He questions on the edge of a series of raspy, hurried breaths.

Standing between his wide spread legs, I’m a ball of fire, my form growing weak with need. God I want him so badly right now. I can’t help it. I can feel my pussy growing wet with the anticipation of him filling me, thrusting his cock past the puffy folds of my drenched sex to open me wide enough to accept all of him. I’ve missed him. Missed us. 

Pushing my body into his, encouraging his gruff hold on my form, I offer myself back to him. “I’m done taking breaks.”

Tilting his head a little to the right, in that way that is classically Rick, he utters in confusion, “What?”

“Do you still love me, Rick?”

“Of course. Always have. Always will. What is this about?”

“I’m sorry if I hurt you. I just-” Twisting my fingers absentmindedly in the soft cotton at the hem of my t-shirt, I almost can’t maintain eye contact with him. I hurt him so deeply, I can see it. “You said…you said you told Richard Kleinman that your Michonne writes comics. Am I? Am I still yours?” I ask, deathly afraid of the answer. 

“Of course. Michonne, sweetheart... I-”

Tears freely flow, curling from my eyes in tiny droplets that I quickly try to dismiss. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to find my way with you.” Anxiously my right leg bops, dances nervously up and down in a twitch that’s in synch with the racing of my heart. “Please…”

Rick’s face is softer now. More open. His eyes no longer hold the steely freeze from before, and instead they are stirring currents of ocean blue waves. “Babe, I know. I understand. At first I didn’t cause my feelings were hurt, but… I get it.” Laying his palms flat, curving around my thighs, he presses firmly against them, putting an end to the nervous tic. “I’m to blame too. As long as you needed me, I could keep you close. Keep other guys away. That was selfish, but I would let you go to make you happy. If that’s what you needed. I would do anything.”

“I need you. That’s what I need, Rick.” I sniff. And I do. I mean that. Not until I saw him standing at my front door did I feel right. Back to my center. “I need you so badly…” I proclaim, easing my body to my knees, prostrate in submission. With my apology alive on my tongue, my heart in my hands, and the remnants of my wine high still coursing through me, my movements are driven in accord with the desire that only Rick inspires. 

“Michonne, sweetheart, what…? Oh fuck…”

I can’t move my fingers fast enough I think, as they fly over the belt buckle, zip and button of his jeans. A flurry of hurried movements eventually makes me successful in my endeavor to release Rick’s cock from his underwear. Instantly he grows hard, heavy in my palm, a red flush of blood coloring the long, thick flesh with the evidence of his arousal. 

“I missed you, Rick.” Pressing my face into the warm nest of thick, dark hair around his cock, I inhale the scent of him, the heady musk that will forever remind me of him. With one hand gripping his balls in a light grasp, and the other circling his dick in an attempt to fully fist his impressive size, I cover him with the plump flesh of my lips. Pressing the tip to the crest of my lips, easing my tongue out just enough to flick over the hole at the tip. Rick releases a slow hiss of anguish from between his teeth, his features pulled into a focused frown. Remembering the many times that we have been together, that Rick has patiently instructed me on how to pleasure him, I know what he needs and I inch my tongue out fully, and flatly graze it slowly along the underside of his dick. Stopping at the head, I rotate the blunt cap, bathing it softly with a mix of sucking kisses and licks until it glistens, sloppily wet with my saliva. The head is wide, fat, the column intimidating even, seeming thicker, lengthier than when I had it last. It makes me eager to devour him, to accept the challenge of throating him, then shoving my pussy down onto him until I’ve swallowed every inch. Branding him with the saturating stickiness of my pussy. 

My hair is loose, falling in long ropes around my face, obscuring me from Rick’s full view. I know he hates that. He wants to see his large cock disappear down my throat. With one hand, he carefully caresses the side of my face, thumb lightly grazing my cheek, then raises it higher to snugly grip a hold of the hair that falls in my face. With the other he holds the meaty column at the base of his cock, positioning himself at the entrance of my mouth. “Don’t tease, sweetheart. Suck it. You know how.”

I do. 

Relaxing my jaws, I create a slick cavern within my heated mouth, willingly accepting Rick onto my tongue, the cap nudging the back of my throat. Sucking in I create tight suction, and begin the slightest up and down friction of my tongue and lips. My other hand cups and rolls his heavy sack, causing him to arch his back and begin a gentle push further down my relaxed throat. I maintain this rhythm, up, down, slowly twirl my tongue. 

“Fuuuuccckkk…” Rick groans, his face twisted in pain. Pleasure. His grasp of my hair grows tighter with each tortured growl, until I’m certain he’s ready to explode. I’ve only swallowed a few times, never really mastering how to accommodate the push of his cock so deeply in my throat, with the spray of his cum, without choking. But I’m eager to try again today. I sense my own possessive urge over his essence, anxious and feral, tickling at the very center of my heated core. I want every drop. Leaning forward to make eye contact with me, Rick pulls my head up some as I lift my eyes to his. “I’m gonna cum, babe. You want my cum in your pretty mouth? Or you do want it on these lips,” he asks, his voice thick with that deep Georgia accent, grazing his thumb against where my bottom lip is cushioned around his dick. “Or your breasts? You want my cum splashed across those dark nipples?” Reaching his hand lower he palms the heavy fullness of my breasts, jerking easily with the movements of my upper body to greedily suck every drop from him.

Shit. My thighs squeeze and rub against themselves without me even consciously trying, adding pressure to the ache building in my clit. I can’t decide which option I want. Hell I want them all. I want all of him, and the ridged coarseness of his crudely posed questions is making me feel naughty, every bit the sex starved mad woman who would gladly agree to whatever he wants. 

Simply nodding yes, binding the ring of my lips on him, I can feel the tightening of his sack in one hand, and the telling pulse of the veins coursing over his flesh. It happens swiftly. An eruption of Rick’s cum, squirting in thick concurrent ropes in my mouth. It’s more than I can quickly swallow, even with him seemingly trying to pull back some. The sticky fluid begins to leak from the corners of my mouth, easing thickly down my chin.

Hollering, growling, rumbling in exquisite agony, my lover is coming apart with each spurt of his essence. “Ahhhh! Gotdam!” Gently, slowly, I ease his cock from my mouth, releasing the head with a plop, though I keep it resting against my lips as I lick him clean. He’s panting, heaving, chest rising and falling with each breath. “I don’t know what’s going on, but…thank you.” he laughs, but his eyes skim my face as though he is truly confused. 

Placing his now flaccid cock back into his underwear, I withdraw from him. Using my thumb to dash away the trace of him on my chin, and into my mouth, I back away slowly. “I told you, Rick, I’m done taking breaks. I can make all of this work. I couldn’t see how to do that before, but, I’m not whole without you, so I have to find a way.”

“I want you to do what’s best for you, Michonne. Not what’s best for me. I’ll be ok. But not if you push me away when it gets hard, when you don’t know how to deal, then want me back cause you can’t live with your own decisions. This shit…this hurt me too, ya know. Don’t…don’t take my love for granted again, Michonne.” Looking away from me he pauses, gathers his thoughts a moment. “We have to work together as a team. We’re best friends remember?”

“Yeah. Yes, I do. We are.”

“Yeah. Well…we won’t make it if we forget that. I love you, but… we can’t hurt each other. Ok?” 

“Ok.” I gulp at his astute admonishment. “I didn’t know how else to deal with so much…change. I want us to be us again, I won’t hurt you again, Rick. I’m sorry. Do you accept my apology?”

“You’ve got me, girl. You know I can’t stay upset with you. Even when you hurt me…I can’t.” The tiniest, saddest smirk covers his lips

“I won’t do it again. I promise. Rick and Michonne. Right? If you’re ok with that?” Pressing my back against my bedroom door I anxiously await his answer, my heart teetering on the brink of an attack. What if he’s found someone else? Someone older, more mature. Someone who’s not so scattered, afraid?

“I’m always ok with that, sweetheart. But…you need to get rid of your friend out there. And I don’t want to see you with him again. Seriously. He’s got a thing for you.” He sniffs, tilting his head, his lip curled in a bit of a snarl. “I don’t want to know what happened between you two. I can’t know or I might kill him.” Clearing his throat, and swallowing down a harsh breath, I can tell he’s struggling with his possessive temper, and his words. Adjusting his manhood that’s once again swelling thickly in his underwear, Rick focuses his eyes on mine, nearly burning me alive with the heat found there. “Hurry and come right back. I’m not done with you.”

With that, Rick drops back onto my bed, seemingly satisfied that he has said everything he needs to. Probably still a little confused and angry as well.

That’s ok. I’m a big girl, and I’m ready for my punishment. 

Opening my bedroom door, I prepare myself for how I’m going to get rid of Ezekiel. I don’t want him to be the collateral damage of my messiness, and I find myself practicing what I’m going to say to him as I walk down the hall to the living room, moving quickly as the stickiness of my arousal gathers wetly in the seat of my panties in anticipation of whatever naughty punishment Rick is going to dole out next. 

The living room is empty. The music has stopped. The TV is off, and it’s as though Ezekiel was never there. Turning my lead left and right, I initially think he might just be in the restroom, but after calling his name a few times, I conclude that he is simply gone. And I don’t know how I feel about that. About possibly losing my friend at the expense of regaining my lover. But I make up my mind that I can’t dwell on it. Vacillation and uncertainty has never served me well, and if this time apart from Rick has taught me nothing else it has shown me that I have to cherish this love, this time with him. Rick isn’t just a guy, or a friend. Rick is the man I love and I’m going to honor how special that is. How special he is. Rick is my home.

Current day…

Pulling my thoughts back from that day, when I finally found a way to soothe over the unsettling unrest of my life and make peace with change, I have to grin at how well things have gone since then. Inching a hand from the blankets, I run my fingers through the curls resting on the collar of his shirt just the way he likes. Scratching my nails against his scalp, I can feel him begin to release the tension of the day and relax against me. 

“How was your day?”

Allowing my touch for a moment, Rick drops another kiss to my lips, releasing Lily on to the floor, then rises from the bed. Unbuttoning his steel gray shirt, and removing his black slacks, he disrobes down to his tight fitting boxer briefs. Even though I’ve seen him naked hundreds of times, I never tire of the sight of him. Unassumingly handsome, lean, fit, his body is masculine art. It’s why so many of my non-comic based pieces are of him. Capturing the classic beauty of his rugged jawline. The slightly curved line of his long legs. Hair kissing his body here and there, spreading over his chest to highlight the broad musculature of his pecs. Curving down across his flat abdomen to where his elongated cock hangs thickly between his thighs. God he’s beautiful, and I feel a naughty thrill accompanied by a blush of shame that I’ve been caught ogling him and not listening to one word coming from his mouth. 

“Michonne? You’re not listening, girl!”

“I am! You said uh…”

Laughing he shakes his head, “Shameful. Treating me like a piece of meat.”

“A very delicious piece of meat though. And I was listening. Kind of.” I protest, knowing damn well I didn’t hear a word.

Walking away he dismisses me with a wave of his hand, and walks into the bathroom. “Whatever, Chonnie. Like I said, you weren’t listening to me telling you that I finally submitted my grant for that after school carpentry program I’m trying to get funding for. Hope to hear something soon for it. Ya know some of these kids have a very good eye for making furniture, the design part anyways. I would like to get the equipment to be able to teach them how to actually make something from their designs.” I can hear his elevated voice filtering into the bedroom from where he continues to disrobe in the bathroom. 

Even though my body feels tight, weary, drained of energy, I gather the comforter around my body, and waddle into the restroom to join him. He’s standing in front of the toilet bowl peeing, leaning forward with one hand flat to the wall and the other around his cock. I chuckle to myself because I can remember a time when we first moved out here four years ago, and the thought of being in the restroom while the other one handled their business was a foreign concept. Not anymore. 

“Well that’s good.” I respond over the sound of the toilet’s whooshing of swirling water in the bowl. “Proud of you. You know, we need to talk about what we are going to do after graduation. If we decide to stay here, you can finally apply to the police academy if you want to. Maybe make things in LA more permanent?”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I did want that once, but when they didn’t respond to my application and this job came through first, I think it was fate. I prefer keeping the kids out of jail instead of locking them up.”

“Makes sense. And it fits you. You’re good with the kids. They all really love you.” I comment, somewhat hopeful that maybe I can segue this conversation into an important subject that I need to discuss with him. It’s one that we have had before, when he first came home from college, and I got on the pill. When we both decided that children were not a subject we wanted to deal with then. But now…maybe things have changed? They have changed. At least for me.

“I love them too. I like this job. I don’t mind LA. We could make a go of things here. Permanently.” His words are weighted with an unspoken vow, a promise to continue on this path of intertwined lives. And that gives me hope that what I need to tell him will be a welcome surprise. “It’s expensive here though, but it’s just us and if Kleinman is serious about hiring you on full time next month we should be able to work things out pretty well. Maybe even get a nicer place.”

“Yeah. It could get tight if there was more than just you, me, and Lily huh?”

“Absolutely. You know money problems, wanting more when there’s not more to have, that’s what got my parents in trouble. Sent them to Atlanta when everything they had was right there in KC. Sometimes things are just perfect the way they are. Why mess with that when everything we need is right here. I’m not losing that again.”

“No you’re not. I’m not.”

“Damn right.”

“But, sometimes you don’t know how much better something could get until you have it. Right? Like you think you don’t want it, but then you do want it, cause things change. Like you didn’t want a dog, but you changed your mind and got me Lily.”

“Lily’s just a dog. Not a kid. Kids are much bigger life change than dogs, Michonne.” Hands on his hips, Rick’s eyes are on mine, probably trying to figure out what the hell I’m talking about. And I know I should just come out and say it, but I’m not going to lie…I’m scared of his reaction. 

“I’m just saying, Rick, it’s kinda maybe the same. Maybe.”

“Maybe. But that’s not us right? All that drama my parents had, I don’t want anything to do with that. Me and you, just like this, is what I want. No kids, no fuss, no drama. It’s all pretty perfect right? We’ve got everything we need already, sweetheart. Who needs kids when you treat Lily like a little baby anyway?” He pulls me close, and begins nibbling on my neck, pushing the blankets off of my body, disrobing me until I stand before him naked. Roaming his hands over my form, gripping my ass in a tight squeeze in his palms, Rick begins a series of bites and nips on the side of my neck and collarbone, until his phone begins ringing in the bedroom. Kissing underneath my chin, not yet responding as though he’s going to answer the phone, he finally halts and moans in frustration, “Damn. That’s my dad’s ringer. Let me go grab that. You, should probably get dressed if we’re gonna make bowling with Sasha and Bob.” He reminds me, speaking softly into my ear, tugging on the lobe with his teeth and smacking me on the ass before he rushes to grab his phone. 

Rick’s kisses have warmed me up after the cool reception of me introducing a subject into our conversation that historically has gone about as well as this one did. Not very well. I hear him from the other room grumbling that he missed his father’s call and he didn’t leave a voicemail. 

“Did you miss him?” I ask, craning my neck towards the bedroom.

“Yeah, and he didn’t leave a message. Must not have been important. I’ll call him back later.”

It’s odd for his dad to not leave a message. Despite the fact that he was a little wary about Rick moving to LA with me, he has been nothing but supportive ever since. Even visited us last year for Christmas when we couldn’t afford to fly home. He stayed for a week with us, and went sightseeing. When we took him to Beverly Hills he even swore that he saw Halle Berry leaving the Chanel boutique and wanted to circle the block two more times just to see if he could catch sight of her again. 

After one night of tossing and turning in our couch, trying his best to get some actual rest on what he dubbed a poorly crafted piece of furniture, he even bought us a new one stating that no one should have to suffer with the second hand piece of furniture we purchased at a garage sale last summer. It was apparently his Christmas present to us, on top of the other many things he bought while he was here. We knew he was just trying to help us get settled, and though I could tell it made Rick somewhat uncomfortable, thinking that his father felt that he wasn’t handling his business, I could tell that he made peace with it when his father mentioned that he was really proud of both of us, and what we were doing out here together. That made a huge difference for Rick who up until then had a certain uneasiness about his father coming to visit. 

Things are good with them, with all of us now. 

Stepping out of the pool of blankets gathered around my feet, I shiver at the cool air brushing across my skin, closing one eye as I smart at the feeling. Standing in front of the mirror, completely nude, I’m taking note of my body, it’s changes. I’ve gained a few pounds since coming out here, mostly in my hips and thighs. And of course my ass, which Rick never lets me forget. My stomach is still flat, not as taut as it once was where the definition of my abs could easily be seen, but I suppose I have to chalk that up to good eating and good loving. 

I’m no cook, not really. I can make a few things well enough. Spaghetti. Baked chicken. But Rick is excellent at it, and with us both trying to save money he cooks most nights. On Monday he made some buttermilk fried chicken that I shamelessly ate more than my share of. Which I’m surprised he didn’t notice. Rick notices everything. If he did notice, he certainly didn’t say anything about it. About my increased appetite. Sensitivity. He’s kept quiet about any changes he may have noticed, but I suppose time will tell. 

XXXXXXX

“I’m so glad you guys could make it. You know we just need to win tonight, and then we make it to the championships.”

“Oh, we’re gonna make it to the championships. These guys haven’t won a game since Dr. Martinez broke his hand. We got this.” Sasha proclaims, reaching over the small table between us to give me a quick high five with her left hand. Scooting back into her place on the couch next to Bob, she grabs his arm, circling it with her own, and looks up loving to her boyfriend. “And…we have an announcement. Right, Bob?”

“Yes. You want me to say, or do you want to say?”

“One of y’all spit it out!”

“Well wait, let’s hold on until Rick gets back with the food. Your order was so big he’s probably gonna need an extra thirty minutes.” Sasha teases. She’s not lying. I guess I went a little overboard with my order of cheeseburger, fries, onion rings, and large chocolate milk shake. Again, Rick didn’t say anything, only blinked a few times and mumbled that I must have missed lunch. I did not miss lunch. I’m just…hungry. 

Just as Sasha and Bob were laughing at my expense, and I was pretending not to care, Rick made it back from the food counter. “Alright, I’m back. Here’s a few pizzas, and they will bring your order out, sweetheart. They had to make some more onion rings.” 

Rick winks at me as he places two large pizza boxes on the table in between the two black leather couches at the Lucky Strike bowling alley on Olympic. It’s a pretty swanky spot that had we not joined this bowling league sponsored by the hospital Bob works at, we would never have come to, usually preferring the less expensive Gable House Bowling Alley closer to Long Beach where they also have my personal favorite, karaoke. But, Bob talked us into moving our bi-weekly couples’ outings here after a few embarrassing evenings on the karaoke machine belting out power ballads and old school pop songs. It was a good move because here we play for free, get cool matching team bowling shirts with our names on them, and got to kick some ass as well. Well Bob and Rick kick ass. Sasha and I eat, talk smack, look cute, and with our hefty handicaps, more than makeup for our lack of bowling prowess. 

“Ew, that pizza smells disgusting.” I wince, a nauseated feeling coming over me at the sight of the tomato slices still bubbling on the bed of mozzarella cheese covering the first pizza everyone goes for. 

Pulling a slice up towards his mouth, with cheese and sauce dripping on his chin, Rick gives me a dubious side long glance. “What? It’s a margherita pizza. You love that kind of pizza.”

Reaching over I dab at the mess on his chin, wiping away the evidence of the pizza that is apparently no longer on my list of faves as its causing a sickening rumble in my stomach. “Well there’s something off about it today. It just smells weird.” I try to cover, not ready to fully broach this topic with Rick again after the less than positive way it went earlier. “Anyway, thank you for taking care of my order, baby. Sasha was making fun of me again cause I’m hungry.”

Briefly looking up towards where Sasha is sitting close to Bob on the other couch, Rick licks his fingers free of sauce and grease from his pizza. “She did what?” Leaning over he shoves his feet down into his bowling shoes and ties them up, then pats his lap for me to place my feet there so he can tie mine as well. “Leave my baby alone, Sasha.” 

“You baby her too much, Rick.” She shakes her head, watching as he tugs lightly on my shoelaces, then ties them in a double knot. “I’m just saying, keep eating like that and you won’t be able to fit into your maid of honor dress.” She shrugs as though she hasn’t just dropped a major bomb. “And with me starting on this new soap opera next month, you know those starlets are going to be gunning for your role, Chonnie!” 

“Sasha! What?”

“You heard me. I want you to be my maid of honor. Bob and I are getting married in the spring next year, and I need my best friend there with me.” Jutting her left out out towards me, she shows me the large rock glittering on her finger. “I was waiting to see if you would notice. I’ve been waiving my left hand around since you got here!”

“Awe!!!” Before I can help it tears cloud my vision. “Sash!”

“Congratulations, guys! That’s awesome! Good job, Bob. That’s a hell of a ring.” Rick exclaims, as he takes a look at the sparkler as Sasha rushes over to our side of the table and wiggles her fingers his way then mine, bumping him further down the couch to make room for herself between us. 

“Thanks, man. I can’t make you my best man cause my brother Avon would kill me, but I’d be real honored if you would stand up with me and be a groomsman.”

“Absolutely!”

While Rick and Bob seemingly settle things rather quickly around the wedding, and move on to talking about strategy for bowling tonight, Sasha and I are still cozied together chatting about her announcement. 

“I can’t believe you’re getting married. This is just amazing!”

“Yeah I can’t either. Ya know it’s all been so effortless with him. He’s just always so easy going and positive. I think going to AA made him that way, and with him getting settled at the hospital finally, I guess he just was ready.”

“What about you? Are you ready to be someone’s wife?”

“I think so. Yeah. I love him. And outside of the drinking, which we made it through together, Bob and I seem destined. Like you and Rick.”

“Then I’m happy for you. You’re getting everything you’ve ever wanted. Good acting role on this daytime soap, a husband. LA has been good to you, girl.”

“And to you. Everything has worked out for you. Don’t you see that?” She smiles, dropping her eyes tellingly to my stomach then back to my eyes. “When are you going to tell him?”

“Huh?”

“When are you going to tell, Rick?”

“Huh?”

Just as Sasha is about to lay into me about my secret that may not really be a secret, at least not to her, I hear Rick on the other side of her on the phone. His curt responses catch my attention, and put a halt to the banter between Sasha and I as I turn his way and make eye contact with him over her head as he finishes his call. 

“Ok. Ok. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

XXXXXXX

“Grandad, hey. Where’s my dad? Mom?” Rick asks impatiently, hurriedly rushing through the front door of his grandfather’s house. After a long last minute flight from Los Angeles, with a two-hour layover in Phoenix, Rick is antsy, tired, impatient to understand what’s going on.

“How about you simmer down, and I get a hug from my favorite girl before you start with all the questions, Rick. I haven’t seen her in months.” His grandfather answers, halting the brusqueness in Rick’s flurry of questions. 

Leaning into the welcoming hug from Rick’s grandfather, I wrap my arms around him, nuzzling into the warmth of his large, soft body. His smell, a mix of Old Spice and chewing tobacco, so familiar, dredging up memories of the many hugs we’ve shared before. The affection going both ways between us as he taught me to ride a horse. To descale a fish, and to shoot a bow and a rifle. He’s my grandfather too, and he’s always made that perfectly clear to anyone who might ask. “Hey, Granddad, how are you?” I ask, pushing up on my toes to kiss his cheek, now covered in a full stark white beard. 

“Meh. Not too shabby. Feeling much better now that I’ve seen my favorite girl.” He winks, but I can tell that something is off with him. His tone is low, reserved, much of the boisterous boom of his usual self is absent. And he hasn’t even bothered to hit me with one of his jokes. Something is seriously wrong, but so far everyone seems reluctant to say exactly what that is. 

Last night when Rick’s father called he would only say that Rick should come home as soon as he could. That it was important. So we did, with Rick whipping out his emergencies only credit card and booking two last minute tickets back home. Jumping my eyes over to where Rick stands next to me, with his hands dancing impatiently at his hips, I know he’s itching for his grandfather to finally tell him something. 

“Granddad, sir, what’s going on? Are you ok?”

“I’m fine, son. First, I want you to come on in the sitting room and have a seat. Calm yourself after your long trip.”

“I’m calm.”

Quickly moving to his side, I brush the back of my fingers across his bearded cheek to get his attention, and hopefully to soothe some of his irritation. “Rick, honey, maybe just let’s take a moment and relax. Want me to get you something to drink. You have sweet tea, Granddad?”

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” He sardonically responds in that thick Georgia accent of his, raising his white eyebrows over his eyes. And I can tell he’s trying to lighten the mood. Something is definitely wrong. 

I grin and give a short snort at his response, but Rick’s face doesn’t crack. He’s unsettled. Anxious. Long fingers scrape against each other impatiently at his side. Moving him towards the sitting room with his hand in mine, I urge him to sit on the old cranberry colored sofa with the last quilt his grandmother made resting across the back. “Have a seat, baby. Let me get you a drink.” I drop a kiss to his forehead before I walk out of the room, and into the kitchen. I’m familiar with where everything is and I try to move quickly despite my own jetlag and minor nausea, to get Rick something to cool his nerves. Pulling down a glass from the cabinet and placing it on the counter, I stop for a moment, closing my eyes to the bout of dizziness that grabbed a hold of me just that fast. Thinking that maybe a Tylenol will help, I open the cabinet to the left of the refrigerator where I know aspirin and the like are usually kept. Immediately I’m caught off guard by the large number of prescription drug bottles neatly lined up filling out two separate shelves. 

It’s like a medicine cabinet in here, with much more than the bottle of aspirin that Granddad takes daily, and the old bottle of acetaminophen that’s probably been here for years. Now there are numerous dark orange bottles affixed with labels that carry names I can hardly pronounce. Arepitant. Dolestran. Cytoxan. Idamycin. Navelbine. All prescribed to Dana Grimes, who as far as I know has never lived here. What is all of this? Running my fingers over the bottles, I’m transfixed by my attempt to make sense of what I’m seeing, and instantly I wish my parents were here instead of on their overseas rotation for Doctors Without Borders so I could ask them about this. I don’t have to wait long though, as I hear Rick’s voice raising loudly from the other room. 

HurriedlyI pour him some honey sweetened tea from the pitcher in the refrigerator, and rush back into the sitting room. 

“Where is she? Is she…? Is she in the hospital? Does Jeff know?”

Rick’s granddad has now been joined by his father, and they are both seated across from Rick, whose head is resting heavily in his upturned palms. No one answers his questions at first, leaving the room silent except for the near quiet huffs of Rick’s deeply distressed breaths. Rushing to him I take my place next to him on the couch, pulling him into the circle of my arms and holding him to my chest. I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, but given the prescriptions in the kitchen, and the name on them, I’m slowly putting it all together. 

Seated stiffly, his back erect, the ankle from one leg resting on the knee of the other as it dances nervously up and down, Rick Sr. appears tired. In his characteristic plaid button up shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots he simply doesn’t look like himself. The dark, chestnut waves of his salt and pepper hair are not rakishly brushed away from his face as they usually are, showcasing the chiseled jawline that my own mother has marveled at a time or two. Instead they are simply there, swirled about his head in a disheveled mass that you can tell he’s rumpled mercilessly by dragging his fingers through it. He’s sporting a ragged look with dark circles dragging under his sapphire eyes, and a wild greying beard that I have never seen on his handsome face. A face that now resembles his own father’s in such stark fashion that I have to wonder how I never noticed it before. 

In these few moments as I’m slowly massaging my fingers through Rick’s hair, our breaths syncing as his heavy upper body laying across my own, molds into mine. Rick Sr.’s cool, watery eyes close briefly as he appears to be trying to steady himself, to find the reserves to offer up something else, more answers for Rick than his tired soul can gather. He wears his emotions, so clear and transparent as he finally opens his eyes, and gulps down a few breaths. He’s tired. He’s hurt. But looking to his own father for strength, he leans forward, hands clasped together, hanging between his thighs he offers some final words that change everything. 

“She’s weak, Rick. Your mother is very sick. She’s upstairs resting now. She had another treatment yesterday, even though right now her numbers haven’t moved much. The doctors want to increase the chemo, take a more aggressive approach. They’re optimistic that might work, but right now it’s not so good. That’s why I decided to tell you boys now. She…she didn’t want me to say anything just yet, but I can’t take care of her on my own anymore. Your granddad can’t do it, your grandmother in Florida is too old herself. I’m doing what I can but I still have the farm, and the business. I need help, son. I hate to do this to you but, I do. We do.”

XXXXXXXXX

The warm water feels good rushing over my skin like the nourishing tears of a warm summer rain. Though the droplets seem to be irritating my nipples and breasts with their pelting cadence, I turn into the stream, needing the sensation to awaken my numbed senses. The rest of me needs the relaxation it’s offering, and I slowly close my eyes, feeling the releasing tension of the day washing away, then swirling down through the drain by my feet. My head is pounding, stomach twisted in knots despite the large dinner I made for everyone as Rick’s parents explained everything to us. It makes me think of my own news I need to share with him, that now seems to pale in comparison to his mother’s breast cancer diagnosis. 

Dropping my chin to my chest I roll my neck as the water filters through my lengthy locs, the weight pulling me down further. A cool draft of air rushes in suddenly, announcing Rick’s arrival in the shower. Immediately his arms wrap around me. His hold so constricting and tight as though he needs its steadying presence to hold him upright. One arm locked around my waist, hand resting on my stomach, and I wonder if he can sense any changes in my body, or is it too soon? His other arm is across my breasts, firmly kneading them in his hold, even as I wince a little at the dull ache in them. Head resting on my shoulder, Rick finally seems to take a moment and stop, the water cleansing him of his thoughts as well. Allowing him the respite he has been unable to find since we flew out of LAX at 6 this morning. Not even taking a nap on the plane, he’s clearly worn out now. It shows in the restless way his eyeballs dance under his lids. The way he seems unbothered while the water gathers on his eyelashes, heavy drops falling in fat bulbs down his face. 

I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just try to be his peaceful anchor in this moment when the world is spinning around him. We’ve been here before. A juncture where Rick is tossed about, a tiny boat in the vast, tumultuous sea. He tried to come across as put together at dinner after his initial breakdown. Seated at the dining room table, composed, he picked at the baked chicken and broccoli I made as his mother detailed her current health situation. Stage two breast cancer. Chemotherapy after she had a lump removed last month. No they didn’t tell him and Jeff because they thought perhaps with the lump being surgically removed, and the outlook initially so positive, they wouldn’t have to. But now, there still are some identifiable cancer cells, and chemotherapy should help to attack those cells. The treatments are weakening Dana to the point where she has taken a long term leave from the bank, and because of how anemic and fragile she now is, Rick’s father has stepped up and brought her home with him to take care of her. 

It’s admirable, romantic even that Rick Sr. has put his life on hold to take care of Dana, and it reminds me that underneath the bitterness from how their marriage dissolved, they did love each other deeply at one point. Together at the head of the table, his hand lovingly caressing the top of hers, they are the couple that they were when we were younger and we would occasionally catch them alone somewhere in their house kissing. Or the one time during a sleepover I woke up in the middle of the night to find them dancing slowly together in the living room, a scratchy jazz record orchestrating their movements. Seeing them today was a throwback to that time, with the way that Rick Sr. helped Dana earlier to take a seat on the loveseat next to him, where they wordlessly curled into each other, her hand held delicately in his lap with his thumb caressing over her much smaller one. Without fanfare they appear to have picked up their relationship somewhere between falling in love and breaking apart. But now, as he whispers to her, asking her if she needs something else. If she needs a cup of that herbal tea she likes. Or when he gently lowered his towering frame to pick up her frail form effortlessly, as though she weighed nothing, and carried her upstairs to the bedroom that they are now sharing together, I could still see the same love there. Perhaps it never died, just laid dormant, waiting on them to rediscover each other again? It warmed me to see them like this, but also struck me as macabre, an injustice so lurid that it saddens me at the same time to think that it took something as serious as death trying to close its grasp on Dana, to bring them back to each other. 

Turning my head slightly to watch Rick, to gauge what he might be feeling right now. What he might need, I’m caught off guard by the sudden kiss he plants to my lips. Fusing his lips over mine, he wastes no time thrusting his tongue into my mouth. It’s the most delicious of kisses. Demanding, overwhelming my senses with him covering me from all angles. His breaths become mine, tongues tangling as his hand travels lower from my belly to the juncture of my thighs. Flipping us so that I’m facing the back wall of the shower, he nudges my head over to the side as he moves his mouth lower to feast on the tender skin covering the column of my neck.   
Feeling as though the pleasure resulting from the vigorous sucking and biting of my skin might cause me to faint, I place my hands flat to the white tiles along the back of the shower so I can steady myself. But there is truly no worry, his grasp of my body is so snug, my back is practically molded to his front, where I can feel the rise of his lengthy cock brushing against my ass. 

Rick slides his hand between my thighs and lightly slaps the thick wet flesh, encouraging me to part my legs for him. As I accede to his wishes, he lifts my leg up higher, resting it on the edge of the tub, to open me to him, and instantly I can feel the pads of his fingers strumming repeatedly over my clit. I’m humming, buzzing underneath his touch and his kisses that nip and tease behind my ear, biting and sucking. Arousal grows in my core, making me feel wild, unhinged, needy in my pursuit to put out the flames of my desire, and to soothe Rick’s own ache. Reaching behind me I fist his long cock and begin a slow steady jerk of the steely flesh, rubbing the head between the cheeks of ass to heighten the sensation.

“Mmm…hmm…” 

Hearing his wordless groans of excitement over the rapid cadence of my own panting breaths, I can feel an orgasm creeping with intensity beginning in the protruding nub that Rick’s long fingers seem intent on deliciously punishing with firm, quick strokes. The bliss of his movements sends a warm thrill rapidly coursing out through my limbs. The zing of pleasure is exquisite, and it stiffens my limbs, tightens my grip on his cock. But it’s not enough for me, I need more of him. I need penetration to deepen the pleasurable sensation. To feel his blunt thickness making its way through my tight walls, pushing the head to find the deepest part of me. 

Widening my stance, I center Rick’s cock at the entrance of my pussy, and breathe out a long satisfied sigh as I push myself back onto him, impaling myself to complete fullness. An exhale escapes my lips at the feeling of utter fullness, of being so profoundly connected to the love of my life, it seems as though I might almost die from the breathtaking joy of it all. Of the first few rough pounds of his cock into me, an attempt for Rick to root himself balls deep. His favorite place. 

“Ah…ah…ah…ah!” 

“Gaaaa…aaahhh…”

“Rick! Oh gooooooood!”

Greeted by the rough rumble of Rick’s growls, I’m responding to the press of his hand to curve of my spine and bending a little at the waist, arching my back just enough to lift my ass up into his groin, and grinding. Swiveling my hips, I’m bouncing and popping to meet each hard upward thrust that sends my breasts jiggling, my body pressing closer and closer to the slippery shower wall. 

“Cho…Chon…” Rick grits out between his clenched teeth, the only partially intelligible words he’s spoken since entering the shower, bringing with him the overwhelming caul of sadness that has draped him since earlier in the day. Right now all I can do to try and throw off it’s hold on my lover is to give myself to him. To envelope him in all the love and warmth I can, shield his melancholy spirit with the intensity of need to protect him from even his own feelings. Distract him with a moment of pleasure. God I hated to see his face fall, his eyes grow glassy with each word of his mother’s confessed diagnosis. 

Raising my arm, bowing my body in an arch as I take each hard pump of his hips, I find my hand resting along the back of his head, his feathery wet hair clumped into my fist as I pull his face forward. Turning my neck so I can face him, I lick at his lips, then mumble a stuttered command. “Rick, mmm, baby…fuck me harder! Yeah, yeah… Oh god…please!” I blow out a long breath as he obeys my wishes, bending his knees and increasing the pace of the pistoning thrust of his hips. Wildly banging his groin against my ass harder, with more focus than before, his heavy balls wetly slap at my puffy pussy lips in synch with the heaving shove of his dick into the abyss of me. “Ple-plea-please… Oh god! Rick!” 

I’m begging now, which I know turns him on, makes his conquest of me border on a savage pillaging of my body that usually leaves us both a satisfied mess. He’s biting down on my shoulder, my neck, my cheek, the pain just this edge of exquisite, and I can’t hold on any longer. My arms drop weakly, with only one arm strong enough to reach out to the shower wall again. The press of my palm, the only thing preventing me from collapsing, as Rick’s hands are both gripping the mounds of my ass, kneading the flesh, pulling the cheeks apart as I’m sure he’s watching my canal greedily consume every inch of his impressive length. 

Glancing up over my shoulder from where my head is hung low, nearly banging on the wall with each of Rick’s forceful plunges, I can see his face twisted in anguish. Water dripping down the slope of his long nose. Over the planes of his handsome face. Dripping from the sweeping fan of his long, spiky eyelashes, and over his mouth where his lips are curled into what can almost be described as a snarl. His eyes are focused though, his gaze steadfastly transfixed on the urgent and powerful ramming of his cock into my pussy. The clap of my ass continues to hypnotize him, transfix him while its swallowing every inch of his veiny thickness as he runs his palms almost reverently over the swell of each then up to my waist. 

Swiveling my gaze back down to the floor, I watch the water glide in steaming rivulets through the hair traversing Rick’s long legs, across his bunched calves, over his long feet as he uses them to push my feet further apart, opening me even wider for his exploration. His desire to slip further, and bury himself impossibly deeper inside of my depths. It’s as though he’s trying to simply lose himself inside of me. 

Giving as good as I’m getting, I lift on my toes, and find the last reserve of strength to propel myself back onto him. Winding my ass in a rhythmic twist, my pussy creates a slippery gyration over him that has Rick raising his hands to my shoulders to hold on. Taking back his control of our coupling, he’s fucking me with wild abandon now, and I’m moaning, whimpering almost as his grip only grows harder, tighter. 

With a few jerks of his hips, and a final lunge upward, hitting that spot where pleasure and pain swirl and intermingle in an erotic yin and yang, a thunderous, animal-like howl leaves my lover’s lips as he tosses back his head. Literally spent.

With that the heaving force of his upper body is brought down on my back, blanketing me in orgasmic bliss as we come together. His arms wrap around my shoulders and waist, pulling me into him in a restricting clasp. Fusing our bodies together in a way, as though he needs the reinforcement of my energy to sustain himself. Pitching forward a little, I understand his need and support the both of us against the shower wall as I can feel his thick, sticky cum bathing my womb with its heat, the overflow of his load easing down my thighs. 

In the still of the moment, only the shower water hitting the tiles makes any real sound outside of the speaker attached to my phone, softly playing Norah Jones ‘Come Away with Me’ in the background.

“Come away with me in the night  
Come away with me  
And I will write you a song…”

Wearily his forehead is pressed into the back of my head, his chest pinning my form into the wall. Pants, short at first, coming in rapid succession, lengthen into long breaths, gulps of air sucked into his lungs with each rise and fall of his chest. We stay frozen this way, still locked together in a lover’s embrace, my core unwilling to release him from the still spasming cradle of its tight squeeze over him. Our heartbeats synching and seemingly beating as one.

It begins as a formless puff of air from his lips onto my neck. Pillowy soft at first, then it grows in intensity, until it’s a forceful gasp. A long tired cry. Exasperation, desperation, doleful sadness in my lover’s tears. In this moment there is nothing I can say, that I should say to attempt to stem this outpouring of profound sadness. I don’t move, I don’t speak. I simply allow him this moment to spill his tears to mingle with the wetness of the shower water, a cathartic washing away of the reality that’s pummeling his emotions with pounding blows. 

Poor Rick, he needs this. This moment to simply free himself to feel the emotional brunt of his mother’s surprising diagnosis, without the watchful eyes of his father and grandfather expectantly analyzing his reaction for any sign of weakness. Of an immaturity that would signal his inability to respond to this life-changing news with the stoic stiff upper lip of generations of Grimes men before him. But Rick isn’t like that. He feels life so deeply. His emotions so big, so ebullient that sometimes they live in every disgusted curl of his lip. Every questioning tilt of his head. The telling burst of a red blush that showcases his delighted arousal. Rick’s handsome face is a canvas that tells in the most beautiful manner, of human expression, the story of one man’s emotional journey. And right now, in the privacy of this shower, where it’s just him and me, his best friend, his lover, he feels safe enough to let those feelings leak in streams of frustrated tears. To fall from his trembling lips in frightened groans of uncertainty. And as I turn around at the sound of his voice, so small and defeated, the words almost crippling him, I witness the pain swirling plainly in his eyes as he blinks slowly at me and declares with crushing finality, “I have to stay.”

Grabbing his face in my hands, my palms cupping his rugged jaw as the steam of the heated shower billows around us, I place my lips on his as though to halt the decision in his words. “Rick... I wish I could, but…”

“Not you. You go finish what you started in LA. I have to help take care of her. Take care of things here. I have to.” Closing his eyes as though the misery of this revelation is too much to bear, he continues, steeling the wavering of his deep voice, more to convince himself than me, “They need me to help. Please tell me that you understand.”

“Rick, whatever you need to do to support your mother and your family, I understand. I’ll come as much as I can.”

“I know you will. And I’ll try to find time to come home as much as I can.”

“And I want to walk with you  
On a cloudy day  
In fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high  
So won't you try to come  
Come away with me and we'll kiss  
On a mountaintop  
Come away with me  
And I'll never stop loving you…”

Needing to hide my own tears that are quickly forming, I rub my face across his, finally pressing my wet eyes against his cheek. Sorrow choking my words as I realize that I have to let him go. Rick won’t be coming away with me again. Not this time. “Your family needs you.”

“You’re my family, Michonne. Please don’t forget. Never forget that I love you more than my own life, but I have to… I have to do this.”

“I could never forget, Rick. This isn’t the end, baby, we can figure this out. We’ve come so far. I’ll go back to LA and graduate in a few weeks, and then we will just…we’ll find a way. Ok?”

“Ok. Yeah. You have to finish, and get that job with Kleinman, and then…I don’t know.” Sadly shaking his head, he has yet to open his eyes, possibly afraid of what I will find there. Or perhaps of what he thinks he will find in mine. 

“And then your mother gets better and we keep living, Rick, all of us. We fight for us, and we keep living. You’ll come home soon.”

“I will, and when I do I’m going to marry you.” Nodding his head, finding a reserve of positive certainty, his blue eyes flash open with a spark of the tiniest bit of hopefulness. “Here, take this.” Pulling off the simple gold band that Rick has worn on his right hand since his parents divorced, and his father gave him his old wedding ring, he pulls my hand from his face and places it in the center of my palm. Closing both of his hands around mine until my fingers hide away the precious metal, he lifts them to his lips and seals his promise with a kiss.

“I’ll wait for you, Rick. Forever. I love you. Always have, always will.” I vow in a series of kisses that I reverently place in whispered prayer across his face, his eyes, his cheeks. His lips. My hope that the power in those words will plant themselves like fertile seed in his heart, growing tall and strong enough to shield him from the days of doubt that are surely to come.

“I love you too, Michonne. Always have, always will.” Rick promises, finally resting his forehead against mine, 

Those four words were the promise that held every optimistic intention that our love could survive this separation. That neither time nor geography was a strong enough barrier to keep us from being together. Hadn’t we we already successfully rode this wave of friendship and love across the country and back again? Hadn’t we surpassed the expectations of those who considered our ambitions too high a wall to scale together, to come out the other side stronger than before? More importantly, we had a piece of our love tucked safely away that grew stronger, healthier, more viable with each passing day. No unexpected illness could blot out the blessing of that. 

But life has a way of laughing at the best laid plans, at stomping out the shiniest of wide eyed hopes and dreams, and leaving them as collateral damage under the rugged boot of life. And unfortunately, our love story was no exception…

End of Part I…


	6. Chapter 6 - Rick

Chapter 6 – Rick

For the first few weeks we spoke everyday. In between my father and I switching off on taking my mother to her chemo treatments, caring for her at home, making furniture, keeping up with Jeff, my mother's house in Atlanta, and trying to run both the farm and the business, I spent every hour thinking of her. Speaking to her. Texting her. Face Timing with her. Trying with everything in me to maintain a connection to the love of my life, to a time when everything felt so simple. When I knew that at the end of a long day of doing a job that I took pride in, the greatest gift I've ever known would be waiting for me at home, ready to welcome me into her arms. Into the warmth of her body. I was bereft without the actual velvet of her skin ghosting beneath my fingertips. During those few weeks the twinkle of her laughter, her beautiful face staring back at me through the artificial closeness of a screen, could soothe my saddened agitation with being overworked, with watching my mother's body seemingly devolve into a weakened husk of its former self. Her hair falling out. Her skin a pallid grey, instead of its sun kissed tan that used to be capped off with a thick head of hair, and rosy cheeks.

Each night I kissed Michonne's lips on the screen of my phone, held closely to my face with one hand, while I stroked my dick to the husky tone of her soft voice with the other.

"God I miss you, Rick…"

"I miss you too, sweetheart. I love you so much."

"I love you more."

Shortly after those early days, when my mother seemed to only get sicker and weaker, needing more of my father's and my attention, each night turned into only a few times a week of hurried calls and texts between my beloved and I. We were both trying, almost futilely, to hang on to a dream.

But my baby did everything she could to make it work. She did, and if nothing else I could never fault her in all of this. She was reaching out to me constantly. Always trying to find a time, a quick weekend, a holiday, an excuse really to come see me. To fly me to see her. A chronic pleading to find time for us. But there was something, this niggling voice that kept me from accepting her suggestions. That voice kept whispering with the serpentine hiss of every doubt I ever had about being the man for her. About whether or not I should have never left home in the first place. Maybe my mother never would have gotten sick? Maybe the farm and the furniture store wouldn't have fallen into so much financial trouble if I had been where I had promised my family I would be, doing what I had promised them I would do, instead of following my heart, and my dream girl to the life that I maybe never really deserved anyway.

Memories of how good that life felt, sustained me when she graduated without me because I couldn't afford to fly to LA to be there anyway. When she announced to me with a woeful uptick to her soft voice, that Richard Kleinman not only offered her a full time job working with him, but that he was going to now publish her underground fave comic series, Zombie Slayer, under his own production company, and that he would need her to relocate to London for a year while he consulted on another project, and together they worked on turning her comic into a volume of graphic novels. Pulling her further from me. From the life we vowed to have together. That we assumed a lifetime of friendship had earned us, but that we probably were not going to have now. Emotion welled behind those molasses brown eyes of hers, her face growing rounder in the weeks that we had been apart, as she asked me the question that tied a cement block to my heart and drowned it underneath my love for her. Should she take the offer?

At that time, I took it as rhetorical, and allowed the question to remain unanswered. Hanging darkly between the vast space between us. The space that grew wider each day.

I'll never forget the look of her, staring at me through my computer screen that day. The fits and starts of her words as I knew she wanted to say something else. Something more. Divulge a secret that would answer her question for us. She didn't speak the words. I didn't ask.

With a hardened heart I accepted this, despite what I knew about Michonne. What she seemed afraid to admit, and what I never acknowledged. Instead we continued on for nearly three months in a suspended state of what happens now, dancing carefully around the pit of unanswered questions that had become our relationship.

Then something finally happened. Like Michonne is apt to do, she surprised me. Surprised us all actually, and she just showed up in my bedroom.

Just like that she was here. Standing next to my bed, looking down at me, the glare of the early morning sun surrounding her form, emitting an ethereal glow that made her appear as some nebulous angel. A heavenly apparition that my lovesick mind had conjured from another night of dreaming about her. Blinking a few times to dust away the cobwebs that were preventing me from truly wresting myself from the heaviness of sleep, I was somewhat startled by how lifelike it had all become. The sensation of my dream girl now running her fingers through my hair, then lowering her face to mine with a series of soft, wet kisses.

"Wake up, sleepyhead." She whispered sweetly into my ear, then pulled her face back an inch or so to kiss me across the bridge of my nose, dotting the few freckles she always said she adored so much. The ones that had become more pronounced under the sun each day, perfecting my farmer's tan. "At least scoot over and make some room for me?"

Standing tall, she placed her hands on her widened hips for a moment, continuing to focus her gaze on me while I rubbed furiously at my eyes with my fists, intent on either living in this dream, or waking from the taunting beauty of it all to get on with the cruelty of my actual reality.

Not waiting on me to make the requested move, she began to relieve her form of her clothes, beginning with the buttons of her shirt. Dancing in the sunburst beams of early light darting through the windows, I could see the fine puffs of dust from the hard wood floors milling around her pretty little feet, encased in yet another pair of her favorite hi-top Chuck Taylors. These were silver, with splattered paint and glitter on them, and black marker doodles of her name and mine. Michonne loves Rick. I remember when she got them, and immediately began 'modding them to her taste' as she called it, with her own writing and drawings, making them instantly as unique and beautiful to me as she is. They were the last thing I purchased for her before I had to unexpectedly depart from my life in Los Angeles.

Perhaps that is why my brain was fixated on her shoes. Bewitched with every unspoken desire to simply see her, those shoes seemingly fulfilled those wishes and brought her to me. Walked her right to the side of my bed, where I slept alone, dumbfounded by her appearance.

Michonne was here, apparently deciding that the drip of time and circumstance was not going to rob us of the future we thought was so certain for us. Unfastening the last button on the blue jean shirt that I recognized as my own, peeling away the snug leggings that covered her lean legs. The ring I had given her on a thin gold chain around her neck. Her stomach slightly rounded in a way that I could no longer ignore.

And of course I had been ignoring it. Ignoring the changes in her body that my subconscious immediately placed a name to. She was tired all the time. Voraciously hungry more often than not, but also a little put off by things she usually loves like scrambled eggs. And her breasts were so sensitive that even three months ago, any time I even thought about getting too close to them she would give me that little smile wince thing she does when she's tasting a new food for the first time that she doesn't really like, but doesn't want to hurt anyone's feelings and admit she hates it.

I know Michonne's body; I know my girl. Even the taste of her was slightly different. The day that I noticed the first time she inched away in discomfort at the greedy way my palms enveloped and massaged her tender breasts, was the same day I realized there was something moderately fruity to the underlying taste of her pussy. Michonne noticed too. Sliding her tongue between my lips, she wryly commented as she kissed me when I raised my face to hers, my beard and lips coated with the silk of her essence, that she could taste the tang of whatever I had eaten earlier. At that moment lust urged me to ease my cock into her, to dismissively look past her comment, her sensitivity, the slightly different taste of her. But later, after we had both found the height of orgasmic bliss together, I held her in my arms as she snored away into dream land, and I pondered what the fuck was going on.

Eventually I put it all together. Well me and one of my work buddies Theodore, or as the kids in our programs called him, T-Dog, figured it out. Theodore and his wife Jacqui had five children of their own, and when I mentioned that this was the second week in a row that Michonne had fallen asleep before we got a chance to watch her favorite show, The Flash, he easily diagnosed that she was probably pregnant. Shrugging at the dumbfounded look on my face, he commented that every time his wife was pregnant she would sleep every day in her first trimester like she had just run a marathon. Which basically was what Michonne had been doing, with me finding her most nights huddled down under the blankets on our bed, softly snoring away before and after dinner.

Of course I already knew in my heart that T-Dog was right before he even said anything, and the prospect scared the shit out of me. Not because I didn't secretly like the idea of her being swollen with a life that we helped create together, that little part of me breathing and growing inside of her. Not because I didn't think that she would be the absolutely best mother. Hell she had mothered and bossed Glenn and Jeff for most of their lives. But because in the back of my mind there was always this little flare of panic that would ignite at random times to remind me that we were on borrowed time. Eventually Michonne would graduate, eventually our lives would demand more of us. More time, more money, more everything. We were already under a lot of stress to be enough for each other, how could we effectively manage the expectations of a loving functioning couple, professionals, and parents? My parents couldn't, and honestly, the thought of disappointing Michonne, and any potential child in the same way that my father had, frightens me. Levels my courage to the point that I had decided it would be best to just avoid the very idea of it until I had no choice.

Of course it's a selfish premise. A stupid one. I never weighed how Michonne would feel about this unilateral decision I had made for us to not have children. I suppose the fact that she never fought me on it, like she has done on so many things that she's passionate about, led me to believe that she was wordlessly on the same page that I was. But as I watched her body and her behavior change, the truth of our unexpected pregnancy revealed itself in the tiny details. And in full to me on that early morning.

Fully nude, Michonne eased her form into the bed next to me as I held the covers up for her, welcoming my angel's return. And it was heavenly. The sensation of her skin, soft, warm pressed into mine, with my arms around her, pulling her tightly into me, crushing her full breasts to my chest. Our baby, safe, secure behind the rounded curve of her stomach, pushed into my abdomen. Pressing the reality of his or her existence, with what felt like a jolt of awareness shared between us. A reckoning of what our love had unwittingly accomplished.

"You're here."

With her eyes closed, Michonne takes her time to respond, and only after a few soft cadences of breathing, in and out, she nuzzles her head under my chin and mutters in reply, "Mmhm."

"You're both here." I offer haltingly, almost afraid of saying the words, speaking what had previously been taboo into existence. But somehow emboldened past my own fear of inadequacy by the presence of the one person in this world who knows me, loves me, understands me regardless of my faults, I ease my hand between us and palm Michonne's stomach. My baby. "You and…our baby."

"Are you upset with me?"

"Never."

"Disappointed?" Michonne asks, a shaky lilt to her usually calm and easy tone. She's nervous, and I hate that I've done this to her. Make her question what we have done together. Something that was done out of love.

"I won't lie and say it's not unexpected. But never disappointed."

She's holding me tightly, arms around my shoulders, eyes tearing as she's sniffling against my neck, and I can tell by the tiny slump of her shoulders that she's not completely happy with my answer. But I have to be honest. I can't hide my feelings from her. If we're going to figure this out together we have to be able to tell each other the truth.

"I know you don't want kids, but-"

"But I love you more than anything in this world, Michonne. Even though we didn't plan things to work out this way, I'm happy to be on this journey with you. You're going to make a wonderful mother, and this child is going to be lucky to have you. That makes me very happy."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"I'm scared, Rick. So much is happening, and I can't figure out how to move forward. Everything I've ever wanted is so close, yet it's so far away. I can see it. But I can't grab it. I can't have it." She sniffs, voice dampened against my neck. Her fingers grasp and clutch at the skin around my neck and shoulders, anxiety palpable in every word. I pull her in tighter, as close as possible, and place a few kisses on the top of her head. Sighing, relaxing her shoulders in apparent relief, she continues, turning her head to the side as she swipes at her cheeks and continues talking. "While I was in LA and you were here, I wanted to still make it real ya know. What we were trying to build. That future we had in mind. But, um, Kleinman wants me to work for him for real. To publish my comics as a stand alone, under my own brand. And I want that so bad, I want my comic to really get out there. But every single night that I was alone, and you weren't there to share that with me, I couldn't enjoy it. Does that make sense?"

"Maybe. I mean, you should be excited about that. Regardless of what's going on with me. This stuff here, with my mother is not your worry."

Easing back from me, leaning away to rest her head on her upturned hand, Michonne focuses her dark brown eyes on mine, the wetness of pooling tears softening the color. "Don't you see, Rick? It is. You're my worry. This baby we made is my worry. Our worry. And I need you to help me make sense of this. Of where things are with us. Whenever we spoke I could hear how defeated you were on the phone, every time you sounded more distant. Different. Further away from me. But I can't lose you to whatever is happening right now, so yesterday I just woke up and couldn't stand not being wherever you are. So I'm here, choosing you and whatever that means. I hope you will have me, this baby, and we can find a way to really be happy again. We can have this life."

"Maybe." I nod, wanting to believe in the hope that swirls in her beautiful eyes. But this world isn't made up of rainbows and unicorns. It's not a place for dreams. And I know that. Reminded of it every single day when I see my father bathing my mother like a baby. Her body thin and frail. When I watch my grandfather trying to make furniture with his hands, joints aching with arthritis, simply trying to help us keep up with furniture orders. To stay afloat. There is a plea in her voice though, an undertone in the subtle shake of her usually firm delivery, that drives me to not go down that path too far with Michonne. Not right now when she's so emotional. When I'm so emotional. Instead I try the simplicity of honesty.

"I'm afraid of what comes next. I won't lie about that. I'm scared to death of getting this wrong. Of how things are going to go with my mother, with the family business, the farm. With the baby. With us. Half the time I don't really know what to do, Michonne. I'm just trying to do what needs to be done. To make things alright. The only thing I know for sure is that being with you is the only thing that ever feels right for me. You are the only thing in this world that feels like it's made just for me. That gives me joy. Makes me whole. You and this baby make my world alright. Just knowing you…exist. So…I don't know…we'll figure out it. Right?"

Releasing the breath that she's been holding, allowing her frame to relax, Michonne eases out a whispery affirmation. "Right."

"Right."

XXXXXXX

"Hi, Mr. Kleinman, how are you, man?"

"I'm good, Rick. Michonne told me about your mother, I'm sorry to hear about that. Cancer is a bitch."

Looking over my shoulder to make sure that Michonne hasn't come out of the shower just yet, I nod my head as though the person on the other end of the phone call can see me and continue in a hushed tone, "Yes, it is."

"So what can I do for you, Rick?"

I rub my left hand across my naked chest, over my mouth, under my nose, for once second guessing what I have to do as I feel the cool metal of my ring grazing my skin. What I know is the right thing. My head knows that. But my heart? My heart is heavy. Heavy with the memory of yesterday's ceremony. An impetus occasion, small, quiet moment filled with hope, and joy, and love. Followed by a lively family dinner, the Andersons and the Grimes joined in celebration again. Then last night's lovemaking, a rededication of our bodies to each other, as I held my bride close. Kissing, licking, sucking every inch of her. Lapping at her essence dripping like the sweetest honey. The scent of which still lingers on the sheets, on my body, my lips, perfuming my fingers. And for the briefest of moments, it causes me to hesitate. Fall back into lustful greed. A powerful jealousy that would sequester Michonne here with me, far away from the world that deserves to also know her. To know her talent. And from the recognition of that talent that she deserves. What I'm about to do almost chokes me back into the same cowardice that fools me into thinking that there is any other way. But I know better.

"Well, I wanna thank you for this opportunity you are giving Michonne. This is what she has worked her whole life for."

"You don't have to thank me. Michonne is talented. She did this on her own. I would be a fool not to scoop her talent and her comic up. I like to think I'm no fool!" Richard Kleinman laughs into the phone, echoing a sentiment that I have silently considered about Michonne and myself many times before.

"She is, and because of that I'm just letting you know that she will be on a plane back to LA in the morning. She's accepting your job offer."

"Really? I mean, the offer is definitely still on the table, but yesterday she told me she would have to get back to me after a hiatus. She didn't say how long, but I got the feeling it would be months instead of days."

"No, she just needed a moment to reconnect and decompress."

I can tell that he's hesitant by the way he's slow to answer, but once he does, I can almost hear the smile in his excited voice. "Well ok then. That's good news cause me and some of the PR folks would like to keep up the momentum she has with her web series to launch her brand into print. San Diego Comic Con is next month in July, so if we could get an intro for her then before we head to London, that would make a huge difference for her. I think she's gonna be a star honestly, Rick."

"Me too. That's why she'll be back in LA. This is her time. I'm proud of her, and I want her to have this."

"Well alright, man. And listen, I know you're supporting your family in Georgia, but don't worry, I will keep an eye out for her."

"Thanks, man. And uh, just so you know, she's pregnant, pretty far along, and I plan to be back and forth to help her with that, but uh… yeah. Keep that in mind. She's sensitive to that right now, as am I."

"I understand. I got it. Yeah she's gonna be a big deal, so of course we will take care of her. No worries. And congrats, Rick."

"Thank you, sir."

As soon as I pull my phone away from my ear I feel a dip in the bed behind me and her arms wrapping around my waist. The built up tension flows off of me in waves. She has that effect on me. But her next few words stiffen me again, as I've been caught, and I realize that it's time to have a discussion that I was hoping to put off until later this evening after we've had more time to talk.

Inching her face to the side of mine, placing a series of pillowy soft kisses to my cheek and neck, Michonne asks the question I'm not fully ready to answer. "What were you talking to Richard Kleinman about, Rick?"

Clearing my throat, taking my time to ensure that I gather the right words to explain, I try to proactively soothe any agitation my admission might be met with, and rub my hands across hers where they are folded around my waist.

"I told him that you will be returning to LA shortly. Tomorrow actually. I already booked and paid for the flight."

The kisses stop. Glancing back at her over my shoulder, I witness her yanking her body back from mine and I instantly feel a twinge of remorse and sadness cloud my emotions. It hurts. But in my heart I know this is the right thing for her. Regardless of how my heart is breaking at the sight of the fury shadowing her pretty face. Or that my heart shatters into a million tiny pieces of fragile glass at the thought of my wife, and our baby leaving me.

Shuffling around on the other side of the bed with her back now to me, Michonne shields herself from me, gripping tightly to the stark white towel draping her body. "That's not a choice that you get to make on your own, Rick. I chose to be here with you."

"You chose wrong."

"I didn't. Just like how you chose to be in LA with me, I chose to say those vows to you and make you my husband. Now I'm choosing for me and our baby to be here with you." Walking over to stand in front of me, she jabs her finger at me, more accusation than declaration in her statement, in the angry waver of her soft voice. "You said we're a fam- a family. We just got married." Her voice breaks off into a quiet sob, and even though I want to reach out to her and hold her and take back what I've said, what I've done, I can't do that. I have to see this through. For her. She will resent me if she throws away this chance at getting everything she has ever wanted. This is her dream. The life we had together in LA? That was just the build up, the preamble to what her life is supposed to be, and I can't forget that. Even as I watch her tremble with anger, and hurt. The towel barely covers her body, her belly poking through. One delicate hand drops to our baby, and clutches the swell of its perfection as though protecting it from the harshness of my decision. The thin gold band I gave her shining brightly against her dusky skin. The other hand plays across her full lips, pouting against the tears that streak across her beautiful face, leaving behind glossy trails over the umber cast of her rounded cheeks.

"I know I did. We did. And I'm glad we did, but… you have a destiny that's separate from that. From me." I have to pause a moment, and I hate that my courage is failing me. Faltering when I need it to be strong. But she's so beautiful to me. So perfect. I hate hurting her. It hurts me more to see her in distress, conflicted by the mixed signals this all must be sending her. To know that I've done this, I've caused the most precious person in the world to me pain. She'll thank me later I promise myself, and level at her the words that will hopefully free her. "You're the most important person in the world to me. You and our baby. That's why what you do now with this opportunity is so important. You… You… go back to LA and be who you were meant to be. This way, we can have each other, and I can handle this here. And you can handle that there. This is the only way to have it all, Michonne." I stand and walk away. Metaphorically and literally. Dropping my heart at her feet. I don't need it anymore. It never was mine anyway. It has always belonged to her, and the vows we spoke yesterday with nothing but our family behind us, and our love between us cemented it. My dedication to her is eternal, but it's nothing compared to what this opportunity could mean for her.

I hope that in the time that follows, in the moments when she hates me, or perhaps doesn't understand my decision for us to be physically apart during this time, that she will remember that I did all of this for her and our baby. When she's happy, smiling, being the famous Michonne Grimes, that she will recall how she was every twinkle in my eye. Every star in my sky. How much I love her. Always have. Always will.

XXXXX

Five years later…

"I don't think I'm gonna go to LA anymore  
I don't think I'm gonna go to LA anymore  
I don't know what it's like to land  
And not race to your door  
I don't think I'm gonna go to LA anymore…"

"Rick! Rick!"

"Yeah?" I answer, squinting at the figures on the computer screen, narrowing my eyes as though it will increase the zeroes in the bank account, as I work on the payroll for the employees on the farm.

"Boy, I've been calling your damn name for almost five minutes. That's five minutes too damn long!"

"Sorry, Granddad." Reaching to my right, I pickup my phone. A tiny smile instantly tilts my lips at the picture on the screen of three little tanned brown faces staring back at me. Searching through the apps, I find the one playing music and cutoff the playlist that's been on rotation all morning. John Mayer's live album from a concert in LA in 2008. Michonne didn't care for it so much. Called it 'white boy blues music'. It's one of my favorites, and I can't say that the eerie lyrics to this particular song, especially the ones that just played, don't speak to me in a very personal way.

"I'm gonna steer clear  
Burn up in your atmosphere  
I'm gonna steer clear  
'Cause I'd die if I saw you  
I'd die if I didn't see you there…"

Personally I don't care who's singing the words. All I know is that they cut me, dig into my life's experience in an honest way that makes the man I am now feel more vulnerable than I've allowed myself to be in years. As with most things, that kind of thinking and feeling always leads back to my Michonne. Cause deep inside, the hole where I've buried my desire for her, she's still mine. But the wound from that burial, it's an open sore that even time hasn't healed. I won't let it. Maybe I don't want it to?

Feeling the vibration of my phone going off in my hand as my focus is still trapped on the screen, lost in the faces that stare back at me, I tap the messaging icon, and see that I have a new text.

'Your kids there yet?'

'Not yet' I reply, growing agitated at the question posed.

'Think I might be allowed to meet them this time? LOL!'

'No' I punch out with my thumbs, frustration at her pushiness growing by the minute.

Scooting the device away from me, placing it face down, I leave the text conversation on that final answer. No. Maybe it comes off a little gruff, but we've had this discussion before and my decision hasn't changed. I'm not entirely comfortable with introducing her to my children. Not yet. Maybe not ever, and I know that makes her feel a certain way, but I can't be responsible for her feelings. Hell, I can barely be responsible for my own. And I've told her that before. That I'm not looking for something serious. That this isn't like before. I have been very clear about that. There won't be any railroading me into a relationship that I didn't explicitly sign up for. My heart isn't my own anyway. Still belongs to another. I've told her that too. Should've told Michonne, but at this juncture…what good is that going to do me?

Since Michonne and I broke up for good, I've buried my own feelings so deep under work, caring for my mother, trying to be as involved as possible with my kids, and hanging out with Shane and Daryl, that I don't give too much thought anymore to what I want. To what I need. Only allowing myself a sexual dalliance here and there. But definitely nothing serious. Nothing as tempestuous and romantic as what I had with Michonne.

Schooling my face from what I'm sure is a pained grimace at the very thought of her, one I've worn for years now, I look up to see my grandfather leaning in the doorway of my office, and remember why I've turned off the music in the first place. "What can I do for you, Granddad?"

"What's that look for?"

"What look?"

"That someone pissed in my coffee look. Squinting and scowling like that is gonna age you prematurely. You might not age as well as I have with that mean mug."

"You think you're aging well, huh?"

Combing through the long white beard that covers his chin and cheeks, he shrugs a little, "Well you know I'm one quarter Cherokee. My people age well under the sun."

"Wouldn't that mean I've got some Cherokee too? How come I'm not gonna age well?" I have to ask, amused by this conversation, and following him down this path that we have traveled on many times before.

"Don't work like that. You got too much of your mama's English or Irish or whatever in there. Though you are getting them freckles across your nose again from working outside without sunscreen on again." He gestures his fingers to my face, then allows a bit of seriousness to fall into his tone. "My favorite girl's babies are here. Glenn just pulled up outside."

"Ok. I'll be up to the main house in a minute. Let me finish these payroll checks."

"Nah, you don't have time for that. They'll be running in here any minute. I could see 'em from the big window in the workshop. Took off like little bolts of lightning soon as he put his car in park." My grandfather scratches through his beard again, a habit he's always had, and chuckles. "It's nice to have a piece of her here. They're just like her."

I agree with him, but I can't bring myself to say much more on it. The heavy weight in my chest when I think about her won't let me. All I can do is sigh out a clipped, "Yeah." And nervously scratch at my own beard because I know where this is going. It's a conversation we have every summer when the kids descend upon the farm. He tries to get me to stop being a fool, and my own father, who pretty much avoids the conversation at all, remains quiet on the matter altogether. My mother says it's guilt that keeps his mouth shut.

Granddad studies my face for a moment, and I can feel his eyes still on me as I try to avoid his scrutiny and turn to the stack of paperwork on my desk. Shuffling things around, trying to make the scattered mess neat. Purchase orders. Receipts. Medical bills. A metaphor for my life. I can't look up at him though because I already know what he's thinking and what he wants to say. He's the only one, other than my mother, who has dared to say it over the years, and I know he won't hold his tongue now. But I can't give him an opening, so I keep my eyes diverted, focused on the papers and the computer screen so I can gather myself.

"You, talk to my favorite girl recently?"

"Nope."

"Can't say I blame her."

"But you'll blame me?"

Sucking his teeth, from my peripheral I can see how he blinks at me a few times, his blue eyes a little less electric with age, but still just as piercing. Discerning. "Can't say I rightfully blame you either. Even though I maybe should."

Taking a long breath, I feel the sting of his words deeply. He's not wrong. I know it. He knows. She knows it.

"Well, none of that matters now." Rubbing my hand over my eyes, allowing the palm to graze down and pull away the weariness, I finally find the courage to lift my eyes to my grandfather's expectant stare. "Things are as they should be."

Nodding his head towards me, and gifting me with a sad smile, he hooks his fingers in his suspenders and offers only a few words before he turns on his heels to leave out of my office and back towards the front of the pole barn we use for manufacturing the furniture and running the farm business. "Not yet they ain't."

Before he can get away, and even before I have a moment to think over his words I can hear the raucous laughter of children, the pattering of little feet stopping my grandfather in the door, and the exasperated pleading of Glenn.

"No running, boys!"

"Gwandad! Daddy!"

Like a hurricane they tackle my grandfather's legs, then sweep into my office, their loud voices calling out to me, carrying them barreling into me on peals of excited giggling.

"Daddy!"

Thrown back a little by their tiny bodies hurling into mine, I steady myself against my chair, and hug them to me. My boys. Dropping kisses into the soft, downy curls that have grown long and unruly over their heads, I close my eyes and settle into the familiar childlike smell of them. Not sure how to describe it, I only know that the scent of graham crackers and grass always makes me think of them. Allows me to keep the memory of them alive in my mind even when they are not here. When they're away from me, living their young lives in LA with their mother.

"Carl, Andre, dudes you're making me look bad. You know your mother wouldn't want you running away from me like that. Can you tell them, Rick?"

Grinning up at the red, exasperated face of their uncle Glenn, with a tiny unicorn backpack slung over one arm, and my sweet angel asleep in the other, I reach my arms out to him to accept my daughter from his arms. "Your uncle is right. You especially shouldn't run through the workshop."

Easing my little girl down onto my now empty lap, as the boys have already moved on to begging Granddad for candy, Glenn huffs out a tired breath. "Thank you, Rick." Plopping down in the wooden chair in front of my desk, he hastily brushes back swaths of dark black hair from his forehead.

Hugging little Judith to me, and checking to make sure that like always, the combustible ruckus that her brothers keep up has not bothered her one bit. She's still fast asleep. For that I'm grateful. Getting these twin, five-year-old boys settled is going to be hard enough, but with three-year-old Judith cranky from an interrupted nap, it would be all but impossible. "No problem. Thanks for bringing them. As usual."

"It's my job." He shrugs, then taps out a quick text message on his phone. Probably to her. Letting her know that the kids have been delivered to me for my time with them.

"Long flight?"

"You know it. And these two don't make it easy, but ya know Judes is a good girl. And at least I wasn't alone." He absentmindedly offers, still tapping away at the screen of his phone.

"Oh no?"

"Nah. Well…you know. She's here. You knew that right?"

Shaking my head slowly, while simultaneously using one hand to move important paperwork away from Carl's hands that appear to be covered in something sticky, I raise my eyebrows at his question. "She's here? In Georgia?"

Finally raising his eyes from his phone, he gives me a soft smile, as he seemingly realizes how in the dark I am on what's going on. "Yeah. I uh- I thought she told you about the show."

"Glenn, I think you know that my estranged wife doesn't speak to me."

"Right, no I know that. But I thought she would have at least made you aware that she was going to be here for the show."

"What show? What are you talking about?"

Scratching at the side of his neck, and averting his eyes over to where Granddad is doing a magic trick and pulling quarters out of Andre's ear, I can tell that Glenn is uncomfortable. Which isn't new given how things are. Uncomfortable is probably an understatement for the awkward stalemate between Michonne and I. Glenn is just the neutral Switzerland trying to keep the peace.

Over the years, after Michonne left to go back to LA the first time, we have had our challenges. A new normal of difficult valleys in a life that was once full of peaks and highs. A stilted history of fits and starts.

Everything was good when the boys, Carl first, and then Andre only a short minute after, were born four months after she left, and the few weeks she stayed here in Georgia after their birth. We tried very hard to keep it all together then, with her living her at the farm. Our relationship was back in sync. We were joined together in the perfection of that shared experience, welcoming our unexpected twin boys to the world. Carl lean and slightly tan, with only a few wisps of chestnut brown hair swirling over his nearly bald head. And Andre, named after Michonne's grandfather, a little smaller, a little browner, and with a lot more hair. Nearly jet black and thick, what he lacked in size, he made up for in hair. Their birth delighted our families. My mother especially, when I showed her their tiny faces on Facetime from Emory hospital in Atlanta, as she commented from her own hospital bed in King County that she'd never seen such beautiful babies, and couldn't wait to meet them. It was the hovering of her stubborn illness that did not seem to want to leave, that kept her from doing so for quite some time though.

I hate to think about it, but while my mother was in the hospital, I was given a brief respite from the responsibility, the blunt weight of her sickness bearing down on me.

I was shamelessly allowed to be everything to everybody. It was what I had always tried to do, but probably failed pretty spectacularly at. Until now. I was a great husband then. Attentive, loving. Making sure that Michonne had time to rest, for self-care, to allow her emotions to settle after a long delivery, and the even longer sleepless days and nights trying to feed and care for two hungry babies. I was an even better father. Taking to the task of looking after my boys with pride. Changing diapers, bottle feedings, baths. I loved it.

Eventually though, the world came knocking, success looking to abscond with my wife and family again. The world that had gotten a taste of her genius wanted her back, and regardless of how abandoned it made me feel, left behind, I knew she had to go. And once again, I couldn't follow. And there it was again, that ripping feeling that nearly crippled me when I first sent her away, as though a part of me had been stolen. It had. Threefold this time. More agonizing than before.

Michonne's career had blown up, much the way Richard Kleinman and I had agreed that it should. After heading back to California after our wedding, and subsequent to her first of many appearances at San Diego Comic Con, her comic series had become more popular than anyone imagined. While she was back in LA, regardless of my monthly visits, the distance between us grew wider everyday. Physically and metaphorically. Emotionally. The professional demands on her expanded. The demands on her as a mother increased. And my absence outside of those sporadic weekends became a point of contention. One we never spoke about explicitly, but that we both felt deeply.

Michonne's resentment grew. I could feel it. I was paralyzed to change it, though I desperately wanted to hold on to her and our family. But maybe it was a bit of stubborn pride, sticking to the plan that I had unilaterally devised. Maybe some disappointment in myself overall that kept me from trying harder?

During that time my mother got worse, then better. Suddenly better. Cancer free. Remission. The elongated periods of sickness, constantly dodging the grim reaper with the toxicity of chemotherapy flowing through her body, had come to a halt. She was free. Free to try her hand at life again. At love. A concept that had seemingly soured for me.

Irreparably it seemed that things were at a standstill between Michonne and I, until the brief weekend her and the boys spent in Georgia when my parents remarried, and we made Judith.

My parents remarried on a spring day at the same church they had married at before nearly thirty years ago. Surrounded by many of the same friends and family, with a few new faces thrown in. It was a celebration of everything she had fought for. Everything my father had ushered her through to get her to the other side of her illness.

I don't know what it was. Yeah. Yes, I do. It was simply seeing her. Dressed in a flowery pink dress, those new wide hips of hers, sprigs of baby's breath tucked in the downy softness of her locs, as she stood up with my mother as one of her bridesmaids. So fucking beautiful. Stealing my heart all over again. I had to have her. I stalked her all around that reception until she grudgingly danced with me, gave me just enough of her affection that I grew intoxicated from the closeness of her. Michonne softened her stance enough to where she would let her mother take care of the boys for awhile. We drank. We laughed. We danced some more. And with her in my arms again, I was whole. I was with my best friend, cracking jokes, making fun of my cousins' jerky dancing to the Cupid Shuffle, and their incomprehensible ease with the Boot Scootin' Boogie. That evening I experienced a light weighted joy that only she could bring.

Drunk from the contact high my newlywed parents were on, Michonne and I snuck away that night, back to my room. We made love. We made Judith. Foolishly I thought perhaps we had also remade our connection. But she was gone in the morning. Apparently she had seen the error of her ways in the light of day, and decided, with a note that hinted at finality, that this wasn't going to work.

Life is funny though, and nine months later, my little princess was born. Judith carries my mother's middle name, and is very much like her grandmother. Calm, gentle, but feisty when needed. She even sports the same smattering of freckles across the bridge of the nose she shares with my mother and I. She's a beautiful baby girl, with so much life, and love, and just pure kindness in her. Dishing out hugs to those she loves. Always so gentle, even in her youth, with the animals on the farm. But God she also reminds me of Michonne in the way she bosses her brothers, but cares for them, trying to keep up with their boisterous play and games. Fearless, never shying away from a challenge. Trying to climb trees with her little arms and legs. Jumping right into the pond behind the house, when she was only two. And in her facial expressions. Jude looks like me, poor girl. Somehow born with my blue eyes, and chocolate curls. That personality though? That's all Michonne.

Judith's conception and birth was a little hopeful hail mary I guess. But again the reality of life's expectations kept me apart from my family. Still in Georgia, managing the family businesses, and of course the bills. The farm bills. The monstrous medical bills left over from my mother's treatments. How ironic that my mother's new lease on life, and my parents' rediscovered love for each other, didn't free me up to be with my family, and the woman I loved. Love. If anything, it more tightly tethered me to this place. To the circumstances of the situation here. And as a result, here I am. Missing my kids growing up, relegated to custody agreements, and visitation rights. Missing my girl. My best friend. The only woman I've ever loved. Passing time with faceless women, who will never have my heart.

Bringing my focus back from the past, to refocus on the present, I'm giving my attention back to Glenn.

"Yeah, they're making a TV show of her comic. Shooting some of it here in King County, some in a studio closer to the city. Michonne is the creative director, and and executive producer. It's big time, bro."

"Hm. Sounds like it."

"That's why I thought she told you about it cause she'll be here until October when the show wraps shooting."

"Michonne is going to be in Georgia all summer?"

"Yep."

"He with her?"

"Well…"

"Nevermind, I don't wanna know." I claim, tossing up my hand to stop Glenn from answering the question. I do want to know though. But I don't. It's a part of her life that I can't get comfortable with. Of course she would have moved on from me. It makes sense. It's been years since she and I have been in a real relationship. Our marriage exists mainly on paper now. I've slept with my share of women. Spent my few moments of free time with one in particular. But, my heart? It's still Michonne's, but I know her. She's closed her heart to me. Frozen me out. And that's why I don't want to hear about him. Know anything about her life with him. The life she leads loving him, and raising my kids. With him.

Leaning forward, Glenn makes eye contact with me, and probes further, "You sure? I mean… you've moved on right? It's all water under the bridge with you two right?"

"Is that what Michonne said?"

"She doesn't say anything to me about you."

Of course she doesn't. Michonne has always been the less emotionally volatile of the two us. She's not thinking about me. I should know that. But, damn. That hurts. Pains me enough that I have to drag my palm across my chest, just above my heart. "Nothing?"

"Nah. But you know her." He shrugs, and I can tell he's trying to play it off. Take some of the sting away. But I do know her, and that makes the ache that much worse.

Allowing my gaze to swing over to where Granddad is now entertaining both boys as they show him something on Andre's mini tablet, I take this brief second to gather my emotions and harden myself against them.

"Good. There's nothing to say, so…" clearing my throat I refocus the conversation just as Maggie, my assistant manager for all things Grimes family furniture and farming are concerned, knocks on the door frame and enters my office.

"Oh my gosh! Look how big you all got! Rick, they grew so much!" Maggie exclaims, holding her hands over her mouth as her eyes widen in delight at seeing the kids again. Maggie has been a life saver around here, and when she completed her agricultural science degree and was looking for work, I hired her on full time. No longer just the girl from one farm over, helping around the farm and the stables, Maggie has grown into a shrewd businesswoman, and a hell of a farmer. Still can't make furniture for shit, but no one's perfect.

She's even become a big help in allowing me to manage my time working during the summers when the kids are here in Georgia with me.

"Auntie Mags! Looka wha I got!" Andre squeals with glee, climbing down off of Granddad's lap to show Maggie his tablet. His chubby hands reach for her, urging Maggie to pick him up. Andre's round face makes him seem much younger than Carl, whose features are a bit keener, his face less chipmunk cheeks, more freckled. They both sport my long legs, and wild dark curls though, which I have shorn closer to my head over the years as the bits of gray have started creeping in as I get closer to my thirties. "Zeke bought one fa me and one fa Carl!"

Instantly Maggie's greenish eyes shoot up to meet mine at the mention of Ezekiel's name, growing even wider than before. I can't hold her stare, and instead I look away, feeling the tension at the mention of his name growing in the room. All of the adults are seemingly frozen, while the boys are blissfully unaware.

Maggie clears her throat and tries to move us all past the moment, "Oh he did? Well you both must be very grown up and responsible boys then?"

"Nah, he just wanna keep us busy on the pwane." Carl absentmindedly responds, not really paying anyone else any attention, his head dipped low, using his tiny, sticky fingers to press all over the screen of his own device.

"Well… that's good too. It's a long flight from California."

Andre quickly answers her, pushing his tablet closer to Maggie's face to show her his new toy. "Too long! My mama was so tired. She wanna sweep the whole time and not pway games on my tabwet. She just keep her head on Zeke shouwer and sweep. But I got so many games to pway!"

"Mama sweeps awot." Carl offers, and I can't help but look to Glenn for answers.

"Is something wrong with Michonne?" I ask Glenn, hearing the alarm in my own voice as it raises an octave.

"No. She's just been all over the place. Flying back and forth to London, then she was in New York to see her attorney. Then back to LA to get the kids. She's very busy is all." Glenn replies, staring more at Maggie than to me. His response cools me off a little, as I could feel myself getting worried at the thought of Michonne being unwell.

Maggie smiles my way, "See, Rick, nothing to worry about. Right, Glenn?"

"Yeah. Yes, Mags. I mean, Maggie. Maggie." Maggie startles a bit, as Glenn pops up from his chair, and is standing at attention, closely at her side.

Poor Glenn. He's had a crush on Maggie for years. They even went to the prom together. But with her father not only being the town veterinarian, but also the preacher at the Methodist church, I don't think things have gotten too far between them. Maggie went to college in South Carolina, and Glenn in Florida, and then with him moving to LA to work for Michonne, it seems unlikely. Then again, the rosy tinge coloring her face and cheeks as she becomes aware of his closeness to her makes me wonder if perhaps I'm wrong.

"Well if she's gonna be around in Georgia, you tell my favorite girl I said to come see me! Just cause she's tossed out the baby," Granddad jabs his thumb towards me, "don't mean she gotta throw out the bath water!" he finishes, pointing back to himself.

"Uh…I will. I'll tell her. This is her texting me right now. I need to go meet her at the set. If you need anything you can give me a call and I will take care of it. Boys, you be good. Watch your sister. Your mother will call you tonight on your tablets ok?"

"Ok." They both answer, again distracted by their devices.

XXXXXX

I can hear them in their rooms talking to her. I can hear her voice. Clear as a bell. Her voice still holds that same smoky softness to it, a slight whispery airiness as she asks about their day, and reads a few pages of a book to them as they get ready for bed. She's reading 'The Hobbit' to them. It's one of her favorite books, and I remember when she and I read it together when I was in middle school. Standing in the hallway, not wanting to disturb their post bath and teeth brushing Face Time with their mother, but also wanting to listen to her voice, I lean against the wall and close my eyes. It's like she's here. Against the darkness of my closed eyes the outline of her curvy frame almost appears, a welcome accompaniment to the twinkle of her laughter as Carl asks his mother why the dragon doesn't have to give back the gold he stole and share? She always makes him and Andre share with Judith. It's a cute moment, and I have to be careful not to allow my chuckles to grow too loud to where my clandestine eavesdropping might be discovered.

Just as I hear Michonne telling the kids she loves them, and will talk them tomorrow, I hear a screech and then frantic screaming.

"No! Mama! Where my wooby?!"

"Did you check your backpack, Judes?"

"Mama, my wooby! Where my wooby?" Judith sniffs, her distress seeming to grow with each second that she realizes her blanket is not in her bag. Since she was born, Judith has slept with a pink blanket that my mother crocheted for her. She cannot sleep without it. There has not been a night in her short three years of living that she hasn't had her 'wooby' which is the name that she came up with for it. No one knows where the name came from. All we know is that if she doesn't have it, she's not sleeping. And neither is anyone else.

There's an audible grumble that comes from one of the boys, as though he knows what a missing wooby means. Everyone in this family knows what that means, and feeling the panic rising in me as I hear Judith's sobs coming into the hallway, I rush around the house to see if maybe it was dropped somewhere. With no luck, I hurry back upstairs to the kids' room, just in time to hear Michonne signing off of Face Time with a few parting words, "It's ok, Judes, Mama is on her way to bring your wooby. I'll be there soon."

Did Michonne just say she would be here soon? Be here soon? Here?


	7. Chapter 7 - Michonne

Chapter 7 – Michonne

"I'm just going to run Judith's wooby to the door. This will be quick." I promise, toying with the small gold 'M' I wear around my neck, as the car cruises over the gravel covered pathway that takes us to the front of the house.

"You sure you don't need me to go with you? I don't mind." Ezekiel offers, removing his right hand from my thigh, and using his index finger to brush soothingly over my cheek as he brings the car to a halt.

Shaking my head slowly, a subtle attempt to push back the flood of memories I have of this place. Of him. I'm trying to let Ezekiel know I got this, regardless of how I shuffle nervously in my seat. My eyes scan the front of the house from where I'm perched in the front passenger seat of the luxury rental car. "No, Ezekiel, it's not a big deal. Seriously."

"If you say so. I just know you don't really interact with Rick, and I can save you from having such an encounter if you do not wish to, beloved." Ezekiel pushes his offer again, over enunciating his words, pronouncing them in that theatrical way he has about himself. The one that he rarely steps out of anymore now that he's pretty famous for it. Since getting cast as 'King Ezekiel', the host of a kids' wildlife program on television, where he interacts with different kinds of animals with his co-host, an animated tiger named Shiva, he's been living out his own theatrical dream. It's really the perfect role for him, and the kids love that their Zeke is famous and on TV, but it does get a little tiresome for every conversation to feel like he's performing for a camera.

Which is kind of unfair of me, and I have to school my face away from a potential grimace that might be shadowing my features. Ezekiel has been good to me, and good for me. Not just me, but for the kids as well. They needed a daily male presence. And me? I have needs too. It feels…strange to have those needs met by someone that isn't Rick, and doesn't do it like Rick, but at some point, I had to realize that I wasn't going to be allowed to have Rick. Not like I need him.

Once I made up my mind not to continue with the drama with Rick any longer, I decided that I was going to focus solely on my children and my career. In that order. But then, one night, only a few days after Glenn returned the kids from their most recent visit with Rick, I was in Whole Foods with both boys and Judith, not really looking for anything in particular. Not needing a specific item. Just needing to get out of the house with the kids who seemed antsy, and to be feeding off of the anxiousness that had been riding me since cutting ties with their father. It was a decision that I felt like I had to make to save myself, to keep from getting my hopes up that he might ever choose me and the kids, and to try and heal. To find a place in my own life where I could be happy with myself.

My mother and Rick's had both counseled that with age and time will bring wisdom. Perspective. That I had to find my own happiness. It was good advice. Prudent advice that kept them both somewhat neutral as longtime friends, protective mothers, and caring grandparents. Rick's mother wasn't well. She hadn't really been well, even after the remission, suffering from what my mother told me is often referred to as 'chemo brain'. The toll that chemo, and the multiple surgeries had taken on a sixty something year old woman were nearly insurmountable. Physically and emotionally. Sometimes she was confused, her memory of events a bit foggy. While she has asked for me to be patient with Rick, with his attempts to try and do right by everyone, her condition has caused her to be somewhat cloudy on the details of how this is all actually working out, and I'm not going to be the one to get into it with her. I love and respect her and her physical struggles, the momentous fight she's been putting up, even against the odds, enough to not let it be a thing between us. I know that she loves me and the kids, but I also know, which I assume she doesn't fully understand, that Rick's sacrifice puts me in an untenable position. And just like she had to eventually acknowledge how things had soured between her and Rick Sr., I'm learning from her history just the same.

My mother on the other hand gets it. She's biased as well, I know that. But her ability to understand is not clouded by the effects of chemotherapy poisoning her body. She knows how much I have cried. How hurt and confused I have been. And even though she's sensitive to balancing her relationship with Rick's mother, and her fondness for Rick, her respect for what she has called an undoubtedly difficult decision, the kids and I come first. Rick's father never said a word about it, and my own father has focused more on whether or not Rick is keeping up his end as a father. When I told my parents that Rick and I were separating, my mother's response was a little more direct than her normal 'age and wisdom' spiel, veering more towards, you have to know when to fold 'em. Which was sadly echoed by my father who mentioned that he really thought we were gonna make it. That maybe I should try to see it from his perspective, cause it's not easy being a good man burdened with leadership. Whatever.

Instead of focusing on my father's advice, I took my mother's because she was right. Life had beaten us in this hand of poker, and that day, ambling around Whole Foods, that was me folding when I knew I was beat. It was a first step to cleansing my life of the negative energy that had permeated my being and my thoughts. It was time to step away.

I suppose that as my father has often reminded me, that when you put positive energy out, you get it in return, I was putting something positive in the air that day. Ezekiel Jones, my old LA buddy was at Whole Foods, alone doing his own shopping, and I'm not going to lie, he looked good. His bright white smile was full of surprise at finding me there. Genuine. Interested. When his gaze fell upon my children, and the newly removed wedding ring that now floated alongside my 'M' charm on my gold necklace, he wasn't put off. He didn't even mention the potential messiness of what my life had become. No. Ezekiel just smiled. Hugged me close. Chatted with the kids, played with them. Lightened our load just enough to give each of us an injection of joy we sorely needed.

Bumping into my old friend felt like fate. Our paths crisscrossing the country and throughout time. That night we spent hours in Whole Foods together. Talking, ambling lazily throughout the grocery store side by side, eating samples while catching up, he even kept an eye on the boys while I ran to the restroom to change Judith's diaper. For the first time in a long time I laughed. Really laughed. The kind that rumbles through your chest, doubles you over as tears color your eyes. Wanting to hold on to that, and recognizing that the kids, especially the boys, had grown tired of our grocery store adventure, I invited Ezekiel back home with me. And that was all it took.

Over snacks and tea, we picked up where we left off. Friends. Confidants. And even as he placed a soft kiss to my cheek, accompanied by another hug that folded me into his strong arms, my broken heart fluttered at the possibility of something. A return to the playful, good time Michonne that I had once known when Ezekiel and I traipsed around LA only a few short years ago. I wanted that again. I needed that. A balance. Some jovial levity to the weighty roles of comic ingénue, rising star, mother, and disillusioned yet love sick woman. And in my mind, right or wrong, I wanted to rid myself of Rick's imprint on my life. Remove what felt like the permanent memory of him on my skin. And my heart. It's why I finally removed his ring from my finger. I needed to show myself and the world that I was open for new possibilities again. I couldn't escape the three little reminders of him that we had created together, and I never would, but could Ezekiel help me escape the wreckage of what loving Rick had done to my heart? I didn't even need it to be romantic. Just…something different.

Rick and I had become a tragedy. Collateral damage from a series of unfortunate events. And that wasn't what I wanted for myself, not anymore. I had given him everything I had to give. Time and time again, when given the option, I chose him. I continued to pick him. Love and marriage and all of that. And each of those times, Rick gave a little. Revealed a glimmer of his love for me. But in the end, every time…every single time, he let me go. Put me on a plane, scared, pregnant, broken. Sent me away from him with twin boys, and yet another life we had created. Told me that his dedication to his parents outweighed the destiny I was so certain of for us.

It was too much. It was not enough. And I was done.

I was also lonely. Even with the constant presence of Sasha always waiting to step in and help out, simply be around, outside of working, which I did tirelessly, I didn't do much else. Work was my refuge. Writing new comics, editing and rewriting. Drafting new storylines for future issues. Sketching out new illustrations. And painting. A favorite medium of mine that hadn't gotten much time before, but seemed to itch my palms with a need to feel the firm wood of a paintbrush in my hand, my fingers guiding the strokes to slash and swipe across the white canvas.

Being a mother was the only other thing in my life that rivaled my work and my art. I loved my babies. The smell of them, the sticky sweetness of milk and…graham crackers maybe? The soft silk of their curls. The smooth cream of their unblemished skin and chubby likeness. They were the best thing in my world, and while I cried some nights, angry and pained at Rick's absence. That my best friend, my lover, the man I trusted the most in this world wasn't here to see the delight cross Andre's little round face when he finally succeeded in getting his foot in his mouth. Carl figuring out how to hoist his brother up to snatch cookies from the counter. Or to watch Judith army crawl across the carpet, trying her best to get to her wooby. Their presence in my world was the source of the most ultimate joy I had ever known. And for awhile it was enough.

Judith's wooby. That's why I'm here now. Sitting in the car, in the driveway. Having this discussion with Ezekiel about taking Judith her blanket at Rick's house. There is a certain uneasiness in the energy between Ezekiel and I right now, and I don't want that. Ezekiel has been there for me, to pick up the pieces of my heart, when I was ready to drop them into the incinerator. I'd given up on the very idea, and when I did, he came back into my life, and loved me so good and so hard, how could I ever want him to feel any kind of way about us? I don't want him to think that after all of this time, the back and forth between Rick and I, that I can't handle a 30 second exchange in the doorway. Of course I can. Ezekiel and I are stronger than whatever chemical reaction Rick and I had. A friendship that life and circumstance forced us to outgrow. We're grown ups now. We've moved beyond whatever we had before. Right now we're just two parents. Not best friends. Not lovers. Only husband and wife on paper.

I've repeated that mantra to myself so many times after promising Judith I would bring her wooby, that I'm beginning to wonder if I even believe it? If that was true, why have I frozen him out of my life since Judith was born? Self-preservation is what I remind myself, but deep down, tattooed permanently on my soul where a lifetime of memories of him and the ghost of his touch resides, I know the truth…

That doesn't matter I suppose, and before I reach for the door handle, ready to just get this over with, I drop a kiss to Ezekiel's bearded cheek. A tiny reminder of my affection for him.

How I've missed this place, I think as I walk up the pathway to the steps and porch, my eyes scanning over the large white farmhouse, and the sprawling land covered in crops, peach trees, the stables and barn, the pole barn that houses the family businesses. A deep inhale carries the smell of the peach trees in the air. Without even journeying around the property, I can almost see the large pond that I know sits behind the house, where Rick, Glenn, Jeff and I used to swim, and swing off a hanging tire into the warm water. A pang stabs at my heart from the memories of my youth, nearly each and every one involving Rick.

Breathe, Michonne. Breathe, I whisper to myself, just as I'm about to knock on the door. As I'm raising my hand, the door whips open and there he is. Oh god this was a bad idea.

"Thank god you made it. She's devolved into whimpering at this point, she's so sleepy, but…you know she won't sleep without that thang." Rick blurts, his tanned face a little red as he's lightly bouncing our baby girl on his hip, rubbing his large palm over her head. The stress of Judith's situation is clearly working on his own resolve.

Despite that, the sight of him makes my breath catch in my throat. The outline of his frame, with the inside of the house darkened, and the porch light shining on him, gives me a full on picture of him. And he looks good. Damned good. Better than a man who has broken my heart consistently for the last five years has a right to. Time has been too good to him and I almost hate him for it. Almost.

Rick's skin is glowing with that farmer's tan he gets from working outside, a healthy warm glow that dusts his patrician features. Muscled arms, protectively holding our baby girl, flexing against the cotton of his t-shirt, draw my attention. He's always been such a good father, that I have to admit. Even when I've struggled with the disappointment of our failed relationship, enough to mark his email address as spam to prevent communication, and put away any reminders of our life long friendship, I could never say that Rick hasn't given his family one hundred percent of himself. I suppose it's too bad that I didn't qualify as family, I think, the thought causing hardened bitterness for him to well in my heart, reminding me of the anguish our relationship has caused me. Outside of me, he does alright. Rick calls every night the kids are not with him. He flies to LA at least once a month and visits with them at Glenn's place. Every other major holiday is his. Yes, he has missed some milestones, but given everything else, fatherhood is something that he's tried hard at, even when he doesn't always get it right.

God I want to hate him though. I want to use only harsh words. Dismissively deny him eye contact. My heart tells me it's what he deserves. Then he calls my name…

"Michonne? Chonnie? You ok?" He asks, then drags his hand over his head, brushing his hair back from his forehead. Doing so tugs his t-shirt up, the hem creating separation from the waistband of his jeans, showcasing his tight abs and the hair leading a happy trail down. Shamefully my eyes follow that path for a second, as I wordlessly recall the feel of that same hair brushing soft against my own belly… "Chonne, you alright?" he asks, stepping towards me onto the porch, and I involuntarily back up from his advance. I don't know why I did that. It's just that…I felt like we need space between us. Separation. I don't want to burn up in his atmosphere. Been there, got Judith last time that happened.

Leaning from Rick's arms and out towards me, Judith raises her head, "Mama, my wooby?"

Softening at the feel of my baby in my arms, I finally find the words to speak, "Uh yeah, sweetie, here you go. Mama brought your wooby. Just like I said I would." Handing her the blanket, Judith instantly accepts it from me and rubs it across her face, the same she always does when she's soothing herself and preparing for bed.

In the same moment, as we both give our attention to Judith, ensuring that she's calming down now that she has her coveted blanket, Rick does it again. He leans up to drag both hands now over his head, then down across his handsome face. "Thank you for that." He says, gesturing his chin towards Judith. His concern for her distress is melting and relaxing his features as a few chocolate and greying curls fall out of place and back onto his forehead.

On some men the disarray that his curls are now in would look messy. Unkempt. On Rick it just adds to his appeal. To the rugged, sexy of him. It's that country boy twang of his words, its subtle bass affecting how he's always pronounced my name in a firm but lazy way. The wide legged stance of his bowed limbs, with his muscled thighs easy to make out in the relaxed hang of his blue jeans, the legs of which drop and barely cover his long bare feet. The sexiness of it all would seem so overt and in your face on anyone else. Like he's putting on an act. And in LA it might have come off that way, with so many of the city of angels' citizens putting on their own dramatic performance of life. But here, with the hum of the cicadas in the backdrop, the soundtrack to this scene, it's just Rick and it gives me pause. Creates a stutter in my breathing that is both familiar and treacherous.

Without a clean shave, the telltale tumble of his dark beard reminds me of its wiry softness on my lips, my face, my thighs. A cool damp, sweat breaks out on my forehead. I can feel my fingers dancing nervously in a twitch against each other. None of this is because of him. It's because I have to acclimate to the stifling southern heat, so different from the breezy warmth of California nights. It's late in the evening and I'm still on LA time, three hours behind the late time here. Existing in a warped jetlag that's creating a false reaction to him. Yeah…that's it.

Rick and that piercing blue gaze of his are pinning me where I stand though, taking note of me in the same way I'm trying to inconspicuously do to him. But he's so overt with it. Hands resting lightly on his trim waist, his eyes never stop traveling over my face, my body, moving further down to consume the full picture of me. Then back up, and finally landing back on my face. My lips, and I recognize the look in those eyes. The preamble to the Rick Grimes seduction. The blazing heat of which used to literally devour me underneath the grip of his greedy hands. The softness of his patient, wet kisses…

I'm self-conscious under his stare. It's been so long; I can't help but wonder what he sees when looks at me like this. The skinny girl who shared her childhood with him? The young woman who gifted him with nearly every first experience of her life? The adult whose adoration used to burn so bright, white hot for him? Strong enough to disregard everything else life offered her, simply to have him?

Without the opportunity to change out of the clothes I wore on the plane, or that I met with studio executives in, I feel dingey and worn out as I pull Judith over from where she rests on one hip to place her on the other. A futile attempt to protect myself from the warmth of his knowing stare. In a flash of incoherent thinking, I wish I'd had a chance to freshen up before I bolted over here. Perhaps some lip gloss? Maybe change out of this bland, grey sheath dress that does nothing to hide the motherly wideness of my hips. Or the jut of my large breasts. Breasts that relentlessly draw his gaze away from my eyes.

"It's good to see you, Michonne. You look good. Real good."

Nodding, I can't fully find my voice, my cool, and I simply settle on giving this man as little of myself as possible. Nothing more than what my presence in his space provides. Haven't I already given him enough?

Reaching his hand out to me, he pushes one curled loc away from my face and tucks it behind my ear, then briefly skips over my gold wedding band dangling on my necklace that rests at my throat causing a shiver to inch down my body, enlivening my core. "You feeling alright?"

Dipping away from him, an attempt to escape his touch, the unexpected reaction to him, I frown at the seductive familiarity in how he reaches for me. Brushes against my heated skin. As though he has the right to. "Yep. Why?" I ask, my tone flat, words clipped. Brief.

"Boys said you slept the whole flight here. Ya know I didn't even know you were coming. You and your… friend." I'm not giving him any further eye contact, but from where my eyes are focused on the drowsy droop of my daughter's eyelids, leading her down the path to a satisfied sleep, my peripheral vision allows me to witness how Rick's head is now raised high, chin jutted stubbornly as his gaze is focused on the walkway behind me.

"Michonne, is everything ok, my love?" Ezekiel asks, the steady rhythm of his footsteps carrying him to my side. I knew he wasn't going to be able to stay in the car and wait. Wrapping his arm around my waist, he drops a kiss to my temple, then gives Judith's back a few comforting rubs and a nod of greeting to Rick. "Hello, Rick."

A gruff, rumbling grunt, almost a growl emits from Rick. No acknowledgement other than that of Ezekiel's presence. Not a hello, a handshake. Nothing. But I can feel his eyes on me again, hard, focused. Unrelenting.

Clearing my throat, I can't handle the tension of this moment, and just as I'm about to end this scene before it gets more interesting than I'm up for, Rick's grandfather darkens the doorway behind him.

"Rick, what's goin' on? You letting out all the air conditionin', boy! Tryin' to cool off all of Georgia?" Poking his head from around Rick, his suspicious stare surveys the scene on the porch, sweeping over the night until his gaze lands on me. "Well I'll be damned! You finally decided to pay an old man dust huh?"

Laughing, I can feel a wide grin break out on my face. "Granddad! You knew I would come see you eventually. I just got in today."

"Eventually when I'm dead and gone?"

"Are you trying to guilt me?"

"Is it working?"

"Yes!"

"Well come here and give me a hug then." Reaching out to him, easing from under Ezekiel's arm, I wrap my free arm around Granddad. He hugs me tightly, keeping Judith between us, his familiar scent soothing my agitation at the Rick, Michonne, Ezekiel reunion I've found myself in the middle of. "I've missed you, favorite girl."

"I've missed you too, but you know I've been so busy with everything. Sorry it's taken me so long to see you."

"Uh huh. What's this I hear about you spending the rest of the year here?"

"Well, my comic is being turned into a television show. I'm consulting as an executive producer, and it'll be shooting here in town from now until about Thanksgiving. Mostly over at the Gin property by the post office in town. So, yeah, I'll be around for awhile. Gonna setup shop in one of the apartments across from Nic and Norman's."

"And I'll be joining her as much as I can." Sidling up closer to me, announcing his presence to Granddad, Ezekiel offers his hand out in greeting. "I'm Ezekiel Jones."

Studying him, the same suspicious way that Rick does to someone he doesn't know, with a furrow of his thick eyebrows, he only responds with a single word. "So?"

"Granddad, this is my- "

Not put off one bit by the icy reception, Ezekiel just keeps going. "Boyfriend. I'm Michonne's boyfriend. Pleased to meet you."

Granddad slowly accepts Ezekiel's hand, but not until after he's allowed his eyes to swing in an obvious manner to Rick, then back to Ezekiel. "You're dating my favorite girl?"

"I'm pleased to say that I am."

"Uh huh."

"I'm quite fond of her and her lovely children. They certainly keep me on my toes!" Ezekiel exclaims, his smile wide and genuine. He's so proud of himself, announcing our relationship to an audience that would rather not receive it, that he completely misses the heavy scrutiny in Granddad's stare, or the displeased glare of Rick's.

"That right? You see my grandson's babies often? Spend a lot of time with his wife do ya?" Granddad asks, his thumbs hooked into his suspenders as he looks over his glasses at Ezekiel, taking stock of him. He certainly doesn't seem as impressed as my parents were when they met him, if I had to guess by the derisive snort that punctuates his assessment. And calling me Rick's wife, which almost kills me to hear. It's been so long. Rick even dashes his eyes to me, the word wife seemingly creating a similar shock in him that softens the blaze of blue once they settle on me, ensuring that I can recognize more than just the attraction we've always had brimming there. My heart lurches at recognizing that there's still love behind the hard façade. Why?

Abruptly I turn away. I can't manage his emotions right now. Not wanting to allow this interrogation to go too far, I attempt to answer for Ezekiel in the silence that follows Granddad's questions, and get us on our way back to the hotel. "Well, Granddad…"

"It's ok, dear heart." Ezekiel rubs his palm across my back as though to calm my clearly fraying nerves. "Michonne is my favorite girl as well. And of course her children are the light of my life. I love each of them as much as I love her. They are my life actually." He chuckles, finding humor in his admission, but appearing to make a conscious choice to avoid the reference to me as Rick's wife. "I spend a lot of time working for my television show, but every moment I can get free is reserved for them. They are my family." Beaming at his declaration of love, and care for us, Ezekiel is still all smiles. And even though he can't read a room to save his life, I feel myself feeling proud at how easy it is for him to say how he feels about my kids and I. How honest his dedication to us is. It humbles me to hear him declare himself in this way, even as I know as sure as I know my own name, that Rick is seething underneath his skin. That gives me a little petty jolt of satisfaction.

Holding back a grin, especially as I witness the lethal grimace on Rick's reddening face, I do finally cut things short. "Rick, uh, here why don't you take Judith, she's fallen asleep. Zeke and I are going to get back to the hotel. It's late."

Rick does as asked, and without barely a second glance spared for me, he accepts Judith from my arms and heads into the house.

At Rick's sudden departure, Ezekiel offers in parting, "Yes, the witching hour is upon us, and we could use our rest. I'm flying back to LA in the morning, and my queen must embark on her first full day of shooting on the set. I'm very proud of her!" Ezekiel grins again, the positive vibes oozing from him, regardless of the less than impressed reception he has received from the Grimes men.

"I see." Snorting, then spitting over the railing into the dirt by the walkway, Granddad fixes his eyes on me, dismissing Ezekiel. "Well, Chonnie, you gonna have to swing back by here so we can talk some while you're here. Let me get reacquainted with your new life and all. I'm sure Rick and his parents would like that. Peach picking season is upon us. Come on back and help out like you used to? See if you got any King County left in you."

"I will do that. I promise. Soon as I get situated, I will make time for you. And peaches."

"You do that, Chonnie. You do that. Your family sure would like it."

XXXXXX

"Oh god, Sasha it was so freakin' awkward! Zeke standing there with his arm around me, grinning like he just won best hog at the King County Fair, Granddad asking too many questions, calling me Rick's wife, and Rick just…staring."

"But why was it awkward though? I mean, you're over Rick. And technically you are still his wife. Right?"

"Of course. But not really!" I scoff, fiddling with the 'M' charm, and ring around my neck. It's become a nervous habit. I'm sure my mother would tell me the psychological, Freudian reason for it. Sagging under the weight of the memory of last night's encounter, I slouch down into my seat. "He did look good though. Still so handsome." I mumble, remembering how handsome he looked on the porch. "He's always been sexy though, ya know. Women love Rick. And there's something about him. Especially when he's playing daddy." At the arch of Sasha's eyebrow, I stutter to clean up my words. "Wait…not that kind of daddy. Just, he's good with the kids. He's their daddy. That's what I meant. Their father."

"Right. A daddy." Maneuvering a licorice stick around in her mouth, she reaches out and offers the jar of them to me. "Why do they always look so damn good when you don't want 'em anymore? Like do they start working out and manscaping and shit just cause they know you're trying to move on?"

Accepting a few of the cherry licorice for myself, I yank off a piece with my teeth, and chew, thinking over her question. "Yes. I'm convinced that's exactly what they do. Has to be what Rick is up to. He's always been good looking, lean. But you know, working on that farm everyday, working with his hands? Yeah, it's doing his body right. Sunkissed, thick, but in a well built way, ya know?"

"Mmhm… Grimes always used to have them hoes itchin' for a scratch!"

Staring off, past Sasha's head, focusing somewhere outside of the window of my trailer, my musings just keep coming, "Wearing his hair a little shorter. Got some grey on his head and in his beard. Looks good on him though."

"Oh I bet."

"Yeah… Rick looks real good. I guess being where he's supposed to be has done that for him."

"I'm sorry, Michonne. I really am."

"Sorry for what?" Snapping out of my inner thoughts, ruminations, my attention turns back to Sasha. Lounging on the couch in my trailer in her full on zombie apocalypse costume, minus the dreadlock wig and katana, she gives me the gift of her sad, dark eyes. It's because she knows. More than anyone, other than Rick and myself. Sasha knows what went down, and how I broke apart as a result. She was there to witness how badly the ups and downs of Rick and Michonne left me a mess.

More than a friend. More like a sister, a newly married Sasha spent many of her days and nights watching rom coms and chick flicks with me. Pigging out on food, and grape juice since it seems like for a large portion of the last five years I've either been pregnant or breast feeding, and alcohol has been off the menu. Listening to me whine and cry, complain and get angry, then circle back to crying again. Over Rick. Over my status as a lonely single mother. Over the detritus of my failed romantic entanglements. My ruined marriage.

She never had to do any of that, and I'm certain that while she had been pounding the pavement by day auditioning for acting jobs, and maintaining a home and marriage, she deserved better from me during those days. Sasha could probably have used a sounding board as well, as she navigated the life of a newlywed. Divulged the long suffering struggles with Bob's alcohol addiction. Shared her own outrage over being looked over for so many acting roles because of the color of her skin. Too light for some roles. Too dark for most. Never just right. Her goldilocks conundrum took a back seat to the diapers, crying babies, and crying friends while she supported me, and I have never forgotten that. Never.

When Mr. Kleinman informed me that a mid-sized cable network wanted to turn my comic, Zombie Slayer, into a television show, and they wanted to begin casting immediately, I knew exactly who would be the perfect person to play the lead. Sweet but tough, resilient, loving, and a true leader, Sasha already embodied every characteristic that my main heroine, Misha, was known for. Considering her sickeningly beautiful body, courtesy of the crossfit training that she religiously participated in every other day, upon meeting her over a casual sushi lunch at Nobu, Mr. Kleinman had to agree that Sasha was perfect for the apocalyptic role.

Ecstatic for the opportunity, but wary about leaving her husband Bob behind in LA for months on end, Sasha took to preparations for the role with more professionalism and focus than most of the people I have worked with in my short career in the entertainment industry. And I told her that, but she could only respond that not only was she grateful for the opportunity I had given her, but that she felt a responsibility to do right by the characters that I had breathed life into from the corners of my imagination. Especially since the world would love nothing but to see us fail. But nah, that's not us. Sasha and I have been preparing for this day for all of our lives.

Even now, as my focus is momentarily stolen by the reminder of the physical beauty of my ex, my friend, my sister pulls me back in with her kind words.

"What are you sorry for, Sasha?"

"That you're not over him."

"What? I am."

"No, Chonne, you're not. I know it, and so do you. Shit, Zeke probably knows it too. That's what all that damn peacocking last night was about. But he doesn't know you and Rick like I do. He can show you all of his fancy plumage, and say all of the right words, screw your brains out, but he'll never be the love of your life."

"Sash-"

"No, sis, hear me out. What you and Rick have is not normal. It's crazy stupid, and sexy, and unique. And messy! But, damnit it's real. The love you two have-"

"Had."

"Have, Michonne, have. It's not an ordinary love. It's some kinetic shit. You've known that man since you were like ten."

"Five."

"See! And that's why it hurts so bad. It's because you know him. I might be your sister, but that man is your best friend. Michonne, don't take this wrong, but I've said this before. You were both in an impossible situation. Rick didn't choose his family over you. He gave you the space to choose yourself."

"That's not how it went down, Sasha."

"Isn't it? You guys got married because he wanted to hold on to you, but let you fly. But what was a man to do with a little brother in college, a mother going through chemo, and a feckless idiot for a father, and his old grandfather? Was the Rick you know, the captain save 'em all day, gonna not try to save somebody?"

Sucking my teeth at her usual defense for Rick, I am quick with my rebuttal. "He could have let me deal with all of that with him. Girl, I honestly think he was just looking for an out. A way to go back to being who he was before me."

"Really? Don't play me, Michonne."

"I'm not."

"Rick isn't built like that. He's not his father. Not anymore."

"Well, he's certainly acting like it. Glenn said that Jeff said that he's messing around with that Lori again."

"What? The skinny chick he used to mess with?"

"Yep! That's her. She's a teacher in Atlanta now."

"Damn… well, I mean… You are sleeping with Ezekiel." She shrugs, raising her eyebrows at making her point, while maintaining eye contact with me.

Not able to hold her stare, I glance away again, my fingers animating to stroke over my necklace again. "I am. Because Rick and Michonne is no longer a thing. I gave that up."

Growing serious, a sadness seems to pull at her pretty features as her voice grows softer with the recall of a memory of her own complicated marriage. "Don't you remember how Bob falling off the wagon destroyed me? When I left him after all of the lies, the secrets…what did you tell me? Hm?"

"I don't remember." I lie. Am I fooling anyone here?

Rolling her eyes, Sasha is letting me know that I am certainly not fooling her. "You told me that what Bob and I have is stronger than his imperfections. That real love is stronger than our own frailties. I believed you then when I took my husband back, and I believe you now. Why can't you forgive yourself for how you feel about Rick? Reflect on it. Liberate yourself from it, and give yourself permission to confront your anger and hurt over what happened. Then let it go. It's the only way Bob and I have been able to even consider reconciling."

Feeling the sting of her words, her accusation, maybe even recognizing the rampant truthfulness in them, all of them, I can sense my resolve growing shaky. My words stifling in my throat, almost throttling themselves behind the emotion welling at the remembrance of painful memories. Hers and mine. "Reconciliation? It's not a consideration for us. Not anymore. Everything I am was so wrapped up in Rick. I would have stopped the world, given up everything I am for him to choose me. To choose his children. But, Sasha, at some point what's real and what's important are not always the same thing. Our love may have been real, but so was the hurt, the disappointment. Which matters more?"

"All of it matters. Every feeling matters. They're all valid, because that's the cost of being in love like that. It just is."

"I don't think so." I sadly shake my head, steeling my resolve against the flurry of sentiment this conversation that Sasha and I have had many times before dredges up. "I don't think that being in love like that matters anymore."

"Doesn't it?"

Shifting uncomfortably in my chair in front of the vanity and lighted mirror, I don't answer her immediately. Instead I swing my chair around to face the mirror and escape her knowing gaze. Confronted with my own visage, the emotion living and breathing in my eyes, I breathe deeply. In. Out. Gliding my fingers across the coolness of my amethyst mala beads wrapped a few times around my right wrist, I touch the first few of the 108, quietly repeating to myself the mantra that has gotten me through the last five years…

'Om mani padme hum'

Staring at myself in the mirror for a second, I allow myself a moment to gather my thoughts as I continue to internally chant. Pulling an elastic hair tie from my other wrist, I gather my locs into my palm, twist them up on top of my head, and knot them there. Snapping the hair tie into place, I tilt my head a little to the right, giving Sasha's observations some thought, before I turn back to her.

Regarding me with a pleasant smile, Sasha raises her eyebrows high on her forehead. "You still mirror some of his mannerisms too. Tilting your head in that Rick Grimes way."

3 years ago…

Tilting my head in that way that is all completely Rick, a habit of his that I have picked up, I squint my eyes and look over at him. Attempting to focus in the dim lighting of my bedroom. It's been a long couple of weeks with the birth of our baby girl Judith, and both Rick and I are simply bone weary. It seems like it's been forever since either of us has had a full night's rest. The boys are just turning three and while the predicted Terrible Twos never existed with those two, they are fully immersed in the early stages of the Terrorizing Threes, which carry the characteristics of bouts of wild rowdiness and mischievous behavior, unwillingness to follow direction, and most recently a disregard and jealousy of their new little sister.

"Hey, beautiful. Want me to fix you something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry. How about you?"

"You gonna feed me?" He teases, jutting his chin towards where Judith is swaddled and snug against my chest as she breastfeeds.

"Ew!"

"Don't knock it till you try it."

"You're such a pervert!"

"Eh. Maybe."

We grow quiet again. Enjoying this simple moment. Our family together. Rick drops his head back on to the headboard and continues to rub Andre's back in slow, easy circles, as he rests against Rick's chest. Quietly snoring against his father's neck. With Carl asleep between us, curled up in a fetal position facing my side, Rick's focus bounces from one child to the next, then finally lifts back to me. Blue eyes, soft, clouded with what I can only assume is exhaustion and emotion, he mutters only a few words. Spoken so quietly, probably so as not to rouse the children, but also because of the magnitude of their meaning, Rick admits, "I want us like this all the time, Chonne." Swallowing thickly, the Adam's apple in his throat bobs as he seems to be thinking of the right words to say. Holding his gaze in the scant light that remains of an orange dusk coloring the windows, I turn my head to receive his message. "I want to feel my wife underneath me every night, taking every inch of me. I want your lips, and kisses. I want to hear you say my name as I make you cum. Scream until your voice is hoarse. Nip at that little spot on your inner thigh. Suck on the stickiness of it." Biting at his bottom lip, he drops his eyes to my lips as though he can see the picture his words paint. "I want to watch you feed our daughter and play with our sons. I want you to see me, and know that everything I do is to get us there, sweetheart. I promise you this. I promise you."

Rick's words are poetic, laced with earnest desire, but eerie in their premonition. It makes me want to break something, because I understand where he's coming from. What he's struggling with. The imposition of life's circumstances that force us to make difficult choices. Weigh the variables, and make the best decision you can. It's what I also want, but I know him, and it pains me as much as it gives me hope because I know him. Because I know him the questions that we continue to tussle with rise, clear and prescient in my brain. Why can't Rick think about himself for once? Is it greedy to expect that of him?

Reaching out to me, wiping the frustrated tears from my face, his fingers delicately skim across my skin, the callouses telling the story of how hard he's been working. Sniffling back his emotions, snuffing them out on a rough cough, Rick tries to make me understand. "I would do anything to make you happy, sweetheart. I want you more than my next breath. But, I can't leave them to manage this on their own. That wasn't the deal. I am…torn."

He's torturing me. My heart is once again destroyed, left in slivers of broken pieces that will harden me to him. Create a chasm between us that I'm not sure we will ever be able to bridge. I don't want to, I think. The unexpected ups and downs of this relationship are too reminiscent of when I took gymnastics lessons. The tumbling and jumping, the swinging in the air. It made me feel ungrounded, literally and metaphorically. I don't like the intensity of that out of control feeling it left me with. It's an unfulfilled emptiness that I can't tolerate. I won't. Not anymore.

Words are no longer needed, so I offer none. The physical destruction left behind by Rick Grimes is real, and at this point, continuing to love him. Want him? It's a fruitless endeavor. An expedition that I will no longer suffer the journey for. I've made my last choice, and…I'm done.

"You might be right, Sasha, but no, none of that matters now. It can't." Inching my shoulders up then back down, it's the signal that I've given up on the conversation. "It still hurts too bad, and honestly? I'm ready to be happy. Zeke makes me happy. I know you don't like him, but-"

Holding up her index finger she attempts to halt my words. "Ah, I never said-"

"You didn't have to. I know Zeke is a bit much, I agree he is. But, it's also because he's a bit much that he's exactly what the kids and I need. That man puts us first every time, Sasha. Every single time. How many men do you know would take two days just to fly his girlfriend and her children across the country, then fly right back?"

"How many men feel insecure enough about their girlfriend being in the same vicinity of their hot, estranged husband that they feel the need to?"

She might have me there, but before I get the opportunity to provide a retort, or at least put together a plucky comeback in Zeke's defense, there is a knock at the door of my trailer.

"Ms. Anderson? It's Anthony Lawrence. May I come in?"

"Yes! Come on in!" I answer, putting on my professional face, shoulders back, sitting tall, lifting my chin.

"Hello, Ms. Anderson. Or is it Grimes? I've seen it both ways."

"Either is fine." I immediately answer, not wanting to give Sasha an opportunity to interject some witty remark into the conversation.

"Wonderful! Well, it's such a pleasure to finally meet you in person." Anthony greets me with a firm handshake and a smile, his voice carrying the telltale lilt of a British accent.

"Yes, it's wonderful to meet you as well."

"You know, I was a little nervous during my audition with the other EPs, but when you Face Timed me I felt very relaxed. Natural. As though we knew each other."

"Oh, well that's good. You definitely had the best audition for Randy that we had seen. I couldn't imagine another actor getting that part. I think you are exactly what I envisioned when I wrote the character for my comic." I respond, attempting to keep my focus on Anthony's face. Which is easy enough, the man is gorgeous. With dark, wavy hair, and clear blue eyes, the tall, British actor is everything that the role of Randy Garrison requires. Despite the fact that he is not from Georgia, or even from this country, his audition convinced me that he was indeed a small town sheriff's deputy who had lost his cheating wife and best friend in the zombie apocalypse, and was trying to protect his kids and family in the desolate, yet brutal world left behind. Seeing him in the flesh confirms it.

Sasha must be thinking the same, because she's distracting me by making faces and mouthing lewd comments about him behind his back. She isn't lying though. The man is gorgeous in a very Richard Armitage way.

"Fantastic!" He exclaims, clapping his hands together one time, then as though he just realized that we are not alone, he startles a bit and turns towards where Sasha is still relaxed on the couch behind him. "My apologies, how could I have missed that you have company?" Offering Sasha his hand, Anthony greets her in the same affable way he presented himself to me. "I'm Anthony Lawrence."

"I'm Sasha Williams. I'll be playing the part of Misha."

"How lovely… I mean, forgive me. Uh, you are lovely, and it's uh…lovely that you will be playing the lead role here of Misha."

"Thank you." Grinning up at Anthony, Sasha's giving him a full smile, I can't help but notice what seems to be a bit of a reddish blush coloring her cheeks. "How kind of you."

"You know, I've been reading through the pilot script, where you and I meet at the fence of the prison, and the remarks from the director there… Oh I don't know, it seems as though they are setting us up for something, yes?"

"Have you read the comic series, Anthony?" I ask, furrowing my brow as I'm quite curious about his observation.

"Ah yes, I read through the whole published compendium over the last month. It's quite exciting reading."

"So you know that in the comics, Misha and King Ezra end up together as a couple. Not Randy and Misha."

"Yes, yes I did see that. But, there does seem to be something that maybe the scripting is alluding to between Randy and Misha, am I right? They are two sides of the same coin. Both warriors. Protectors. Leaders. It's a dynamic that I noticed in the comics, in their kinetic friendship. But, friends do quite often become lovers. It's that connection, that recognition of one's other half I think. And I do look forward to exploring it with you, Sasha." Winking at her, Anthony is clearly flirting with her. And Sasha, married or not, is simply eating it up.

"I look forward to our exploration of each other as well, Anthony." Seemingly catching my surprised face, as I know my eyes are positively bulging with surprise at their flirtatious banter, Sasha tacks on a final word to her response. "Professionally."

Bowing at the waist, Anthony takes a delicate hold of Sasha's hand, and places a kiss on her knuckles. "Of course." Then takes his leave.

Upon his departure, Sasha and I wait a long while before either of us speaks. Rushing over to the door, then locking it behind him, Sasha is the one to speak first. "Damn girl, you even had to find a Rick Grimes clone to play the role of Randy? If this isn't some subliminal shit I'll pay for lying!"

"What are you talking about?"

Pointing an accusatory index finger my way, Sasha confronts me, "Where you find a man that looks so much like Rick to play his part in this show, Michonne? That's some wild shit!"

"I didn't! Not all white men look alike, Sasha. How rude!"

"Girl, cut the shit. That man is the British version of Rick and you know it. And everyone but you will admit that Randy and Misha are just the comic, alternate universe of Rick and Michonne."

"You're tripping!"

"No I'm not. I read that comic, Michonne, and Anthony is right. You may have written it like some fanfiction alternate universe for you and Rick, adding in that busted King Ezekiel, I mean Ezra, but Anthony is on to you, sis. And I for one look forward to exploring it…with him!"

XXXXXX

"Mama, then Dre and Carl called me a baby. I not a baby!"

"Nuh uh! Dre called her a baby." Carl gestures with his thumb towards where Andre is seated next to him, his eyes only rising from underneath the shadow of what I recognize as one of Rick's old cowboy hats, but only briefly from his iPad to make contact with mine through the computer screen. "I called her a cwybaby cause she cwied about it."

"Carl!"

"Huh?"

"Snitches get stitches, Judith!" Andre angrily charges at his little sister, upset that she was spilling the beans about everything they had been up to over the last few days. We'd missed our nightly Face Time session before bed for three nights in a row due to the night time shooting schedule the show was on. When I tried to call after 9 pm, unsurprisingly no one had answered. Which stung a little bit, as I've never gone this long without seeing my babies' faces. Even when they were little babies and Rick would have them, his mother or father would always make sure to call me each night on Face Time so I could sing to them, say a few words, at least lay my eyes on them.

"Andre, don't call your sister a snitch! And where did you hear that?"

"Stiches? Whas a snitch, Mama?" Judith asks, scrunching up her tiny face that is swaddled by the cloak of her wooby wrapped around her whole body. Seated on the bed in Rick's bedroom, Carl and Andre flanking Judith, who is plopped down between them in the middle, they each look like the living, breathing embodiment of what Rick and I once had, each of their faces and frames carrying the evidence of our coupling. I can't help but smile at the memories that are swept up in their conceptions and births, my life so much richer with them in it.

As my brain is racing to try and figure out a way to explain what a snitch is to a three-year-old, Rick's long legs suddenly enter the screen of my laptop as he stands next to the bed. "Sorry to interrupt you, Chonne, time for bed kiddos. It's 8:30."

A round of groans, mostly from the boys erupt at his announcement. Andre dramatically falls backwards on the bed, groaning, his skinny little legs peeking out from his pajama shorts, kicking up into the air. Carl immediately jumps up in his police officer themed PJs, but still heavily focused on his iPad, doesn't actually take another step to follow his father's command. And Judith, well she's Rick's princess, so all she does is raise her arms to her father in a quiet command for him to pick her up. He does. Of course he does. He always does what Judith asks of him. She's got him wrapped solidly around her chubby toddler fingers.

"No problem." I sigh, a little sad that our nightly ritual is over. "Good night, babies. Mama loves you to the moon and back." I declare, blowing a series of kisses at each of them.

"Wuv you, Mama." Judith is the first to respond, wrapping her pajama clad arms around her father's neck, and yawning out a tired "Night."

"Boys, tell your mama good night, and go to your room." Rick declares with more bass to his voice this time, brooking no argument from the twins.

"Night, Mama!" They both utter in unison. Carl sulks a little as Rick takes his iPad from his hands and ushers him towards the door. Andre, always the liveliest of the bunch, kisses his hands and pops kisses back to me through the screen, then dances out of the bedroom and presumably down the hall to the bedroom he shares with his brother and sister.

I'm about to disconnect the call, when Rick leans down into the frame and brings his face into focus. "Uh, can you hang on a sec? I'll be right back."

Caught off guard by his request, I can't think of an excuse quick enough not to, so I just nod my head, agreeing to wait for him.

Rick is only gone for a moment, just long enough to ensure the boys have actually tucked themselves away in their bunk beds instead of dodging away to evade bedtime in their grandparents' room. And to snuggle Judith down under the comforter covering her pink princess bed, making certain that her wooby is safely wrapped in her arms.

Taking the seat now vacated by the kids, Rick settles on the bed, folding his hands together between his wide spread legs, then raises his eyes to the screen. Capturing me in his tired gaze. "Thanks for waiting a second, I'm sure you've been real busy lately with the show and all."

On a heavy sigh, I have to admit that he's right. Taking a swig of the glass of wine I was sipping on before I called the kids, I savor the rich flavor of the dark Cabernet Sauvignon. "Yes, I have been busy. It takes a lot more than I imagined to pull off an episode of a television show. Much bigger production than just me and my paper jotting down a story and illustrations."

A smile tugs at his lips as he scratches at the scruff on his cheeks that is quickly turning into a fuller beard than the one he sported only a few short days ago. I forgot how hairy that man is.

"You've always been a hard worker, I'm sure you will get the hang of it."

"Yeah."

"So, uh, a few things. I got a certified envelope in the mail from your lawyer this morning. You could have told me, Michonne."

"I'm sorry about that, Rick. I forgot to make some time to discuss that with you. I think it's time to settle things. Don't you?"

"Is that what this is? Settling thangs?"

"I don't know what else to call it. We haven't been together for years, Rick. And...I know that you're not a monk."

"Hold up! What does that mean?"

"It means that I remember how you are. There's no way you're celibate. It's been years. Someone, or a couple of someones are keeping you company." I roll my eyes, thinly veiling my disgust and discomfort at the thought of him sharing with someone else what used to belong to me. And remembering the bit of gossip Glenn shared about that someone being Lori, I can feel myself growing angry at him going back to her.

"Well the kids told me you slept all the way on the flight from California, so maybe we both know something about each other? About how someone is keeping you company?" He asks, spitting the words with that Rick Grimes grit that rumbles in his deep voice.

"Those kids of yours tell everything!"

"Is there something to what they're telling?"

Jerking my head back a little shocked by his question, I roll my eyes at the insinuation and the audacity of him asking it. "I know what you're thinking, and no, I'm jetlagged. I've been in multiple time zones over just a few days. My body is just out of whack. I'm definitely taking precautions so I don't end up pregnant again any time soon, Rick. You on the other hand, I remember you."

Quirking a brow, Rick grins despite the precarious nature of our conversation, the remembrance of our sexual dalliances over the years living in the lascivious twist of his pink lips. "What do you remember about me, Michonne? I'm curious."

"Believe it or not, Rick, I remember everything about you."

Pausing, he licks at those lips, bringing to mind the softness of them, the commanding way they take control of a kiss. "Is that right?"

"Yeah. That's right." I won't get sucked into that smile. I won't, I promise myself, leaning back onto the couch of this furnished apartment the studio has setup for me. It's not as cozy as the sectional couch at my home in LA, but its seating is deep enough for me to sink backwards and attempt to hide from what Rick's trying to do.

"Let's go down memory lane, shall we? Remember how much I love you, Michonne? How good of friends we once were? Do you remember that?"

"Among other things. I remember how stubborn and spoiled you are, but regardless, all of that's in the past, it's time to look to the future. Don't you want to get married again? Maybe have more children?"

Rick slowly shakes his head at my question, and I can see the playfulness on his face has expired and is now replaced by the hurt in the narrowed squint of his angry blue eyes. "I get the sense that what I want doesn't matter with you."

"That's not fair. I tried. To understand what you were doing. What you wanted."

"But I didn't, right? That's what you mean? You blame me cause you think I didn't try. That I didn't die every night that you weren't in my arms? That my babies weren't with me? My family with me?"

"It has been difficult for both of us. I think…I think we have to just know that we did the best we could."

"That's bullshit. We didn't have a real chance to do the best that we could. We do now. We can get back to who we once were."

"What?"

"You're here. I'm here. The kids are here. Let's try to at least be friends again, Michonne."

"Rick?"

"You are my best friend. Still. I can't just sign you out of my life. I can't just ignore the fact that you're here, living right up the road. Working in town."

"Maybe you don't have a choice. You never gave me one."

"You're right, Chonne. I don't want to fight with you. I just want us to show our kids that we are friends, and that no matter what happens we are a family that loves each other. Is that too much to ask?"

"Rick…"

"Chonne… You think I gave up on us, or that I chose something over you. I chose your destiny over us. I chose you. I'm a little hurt that you came back to my hometown and didn't think enough of me, your husband, the father of your children, to even tell me you were gonna be here. That hurts. I think it's time we healed the hurt. Maybe then we can move forward?"

Dropping my head back to hide the emotion that I'm sure is clouding my face, I twist my lips in frustration. I knew he was going to do this. Put up a fight. Ready to battle when the war is nearly lost.

"You told Granddad you would come out for peach picking, he's ready to collect on that promise. Told me to tell you that the first pick is gonna be next weekend. He wants you to come. We all do. I do."

"Ah…"

"Remember the first year you came peach pickin'. When you were, lemme think… eight. You ate so many peaches you got sick? Swore off peaches forever." He laughs, the bass of his voice making his joyful remembrance that much sweeter. This man remembers everything.

"Well, until the next day when I got ahold of your grandmother's peach cobbler." I chuckle, reluctantly grinning at the memory myself.

"Of course. You could never turn down her peach cobbler."

"Do you remember that Granddad said I was like Templeton the rat from Charlotte's Web? Ate too much at the fair! You stayed up with me all night while I was throwing up, stomach hurting. I was so greedy! Why did I eat so much?"

"Don't you remember? Glenn and Jeff dared you to. You know you can't pass up a dare."

"Stubborn cow."

"Hey, don't talk that way about my wife." He laughs, the way he's looking at me through the screen of the computer, the slight lines at the corner of his eyes, and the dramatic breadth of his long eyelashes causing me to have to look away before I get sucked into the jovial back and forth of our almost domestic banter. "You're not stubborn. You're committed. Loyal."

"Maybe."

"Believe me, Chonnie, if anyone knows how loyal you are it's me."

"Ah…"

"So, can I tell Granddad his favorite girl will be here? He's making peach chutney again this year."

"Mmm," I moan, licking at my lips at just the thought of the sweetly spiced concoction that I can almost taste on my tongue. "You do know how to suck me in don't you, Rick?"

"I do love to hear you moan my name like that, Michonne. I've missed it." Sitting up taller, his posture and his resolve seemingly stiffened, Rick quietly studies me for a moment. "I've missed you, Michonne."

"Rick, let's not do this. I'll come next weekend, but you should sign the papers."

"We'll see." He nods, agrees to back off of his unreasonable stubbornness. Wiping his hand down his face, it's as though he's swiped away the idea of wanting to say something else on the matter, but thinks better of it. "That's a conversation for another time. Just say you'll come. Please?"

Reconsidering what it might mean to spend a whole day with Rick and the kids, what kind of mixed message it might send, I try to back peddle. "I don't know if this a good idea. I can visit with Granddad another time." As Rick is about to protest my cellphone begins buzzing. Glancing at the screen I see that it's Ezekiel. "I should go, this is Ezekiel."

"Hm…"

"I have to go, Rick. I have to take this."

"Then I'll see you next Saturday."

I don't get a chance to rebut his declaration, as he quickly disconnects the call. Shit.

Accepting Ezekiel's call, I can instantly hear the whooshing sound of the wind that's probably coming from his car windows being rolled down. It's about 5:40 in LA, and he's probably just now leaving the studio from working on his own hit show.

"My queen! How are you this fine day? Feeling better I hope?"

Attempting to toss off the confusing vibes from my chat with Rick, I put a fresh smile on my face as though Ezekiel can see me. "Hey Zeke, I'm good. Yeah, my body is settling in. It was just the back and forth from London, then New York, LA, now Georgia. I was just exhausted from not knowing what time zone I was in. But I'm good now. How was your day?"

"I'm glad to hear that you are feeling better, but I was hoping that your bout of exhaustion was an indicator of something else perhaps?" He asserts with hope clear in his voice.

"No. I'm pretty sure it's not that. Sorry." I breathe out, really only sorry that he seems to have his hopes up for something that I've been pretty clear about not wanting. At least not right now. Honestly, I hate to admit it, but I can't fathom the idea of having a child with someone other than Rick. He probably wouldn't care about having a baby with whatever hoe is warming his bed, but… even if I've moved on with Zeke I just can't. Rick is my kids' father. Something about any other reality doesn't sit right. I'm going to stash that thought for another day when I'm not so emotionally raw. When I can better reconcile it away with the rest of my unresolved Rick Grimes opinions.

I can hear what sounds like a small huff of air pushed into the phone. Probably Zeke putting on that patronizing smile he often gives me when he can sense me putting up resistance to one of his one sided plans. The man may be kind, and caring, but he's also hell bent on getting his way. What is my attraction to these kinds of men, I wonder, then my thoughts get pulled back in by him continuing the conversation. "Nothing to apologize for, my dearest. It will happen for us when the time is right. Talking to your lawyer is just the first step in getting to that right time. Yes?"

"Sure."

"Good. I have some great news to share with you. Today, my producer Carol announced that we are taking the show on the road. Internationally mind you. Zooing with Zeke is going on safari in Africa. On a retreat in India. Eco fishing in Costa Rica."

"Wow, Zeke, that's a big deal!"

"Yes it is! Animal Planet has decided to invest in my show in a huge way. They are hoping to make me bigger than the crocodile hunter."

"Hopefully safer though."

"Of course, of course! But, this will mean that the time commitment to such a large endeavor will require that I be away from LA for months at a time. Away from you, and the children."

"Oh."

"I may not be able to fly into Georgia every other weekend. But I have a solution that I pray you will find appealing, my love."

"And what is that?"

"Come with me. You and the children. Wouldn't it be an amazing adventure for our family to travel the world together? Allowing the kids to learn about the world and its creations first hand?"

"That's… Zeke, wow, I don't know what to say."

"Say that you will consider it. I can probably talk the EPs into something that might accommodate your own shooting schedule. I want to make this thing with us permanent, Michonne. I want us to be a real family. I think you want that too?"

"Ezekiel, this is a lot at once. You're just really jumping ahead."

"Am I? Have we not been friends and lovers for quite some time?"

"We've only been romantic for a year or so though."

Unbothered and not even addressing my point about the short lifespan of our romantic relationship, Ezekiel keeps going. "I know you will have to discuss taking the children out of the country with their father, but I think that with the divorce papers he sees that you have moved on with your life. With me. It's time to truly bind our lives together, my love. Please say you will give it some thought at least?" His voice is gentle but pleading, patient. That is a characteristic of Ezekiel's that I have become very familiar with. His patience. The first time we were intimate the man confessed that he had been waiting for that moment since he met me so many years ago. Even before I moved to LA. Said that he could feel the destiny in our connection. I can't say that I have felt that same pull towards him, but there is something in his caring nature that keeps me grounded with him. Interested in seeing just how far this can go. How far away can I actually get from the romantic feelings that I can only admit to myself at my lowest moments, when I'm alone, that I still carry for Rick?

"I will think it over, Zeke." It's the only thing I can commit to right now. My head is swimming with the possibilities embedded in Zeke's proposal. "Give me some time. Ok?"

"Take all the time you need. I know you will choose what's best for you and our family, and I am convinced that this is what's best. You will see." He promises with such joy brimming in his voice at the thought of us making things official, that I can nearly see the smile on his face all the way from LA.


	8. Chapter  - Rick

Chapter 8 – Rick

“Turn here, Daryl.”

“I heard the GPS, asshole, I don’t need you to repeat it to me.” Daryl grumbles, tossing his cigarette out of the window and cutting his eyes at Shane in the passenger seat. 

“I didn’t know if you could hear it over this death metal you’re blasting over the speakers. Ya know, riding into Atlanta with this shit on, I’m sure people are gonna be surprised that you have on shoes, and all of your teeth.” Shane retorts, tossing out one of many barbs that he and Daryl have been slinging back and forth the whole 45-minute drive from King County. 

“Shut the hell up! I told you fuckers, if I drive, I pick the music. I ain’t listenin’ to no hokey ass moody blues for Rick, and I damn sure ain’t listenin’ to no damn rap music for you.”

“I’m gonna drive back so I don’t have to listen to this shit later.” Shane mumbles, staring out of the passenger side window. “Rick, this is a fancy ass little neighborhood. What these rich folks want with your country ass furniture?”

“Hell if I know. Maggie said the farmhouse look is in so, these rehabbed farm doors turned into a dining room table is what they like. Paid a lot of money for it too.”

“Sure it’s the look of the farm furniture, or the look of the farm boy who made it?” he asks jokingly, chuckling as he turns to the backseat where I’m checking over the paperwork for the delivery.

I don’t even bother answering Shane, but I can tell by the quick dash of Daryl’s eyes catching mine in the rearview mirror that he’s also interested in what’s going on here. I appreciate them helping me out with an early Saturday morning delivery at the last minute, but I don’t really want to get too deep into the circumstances of why we’re in Dunwoody making the delivery to Lori’s friend’s house. It’s a long story. 

There isn’t time for me to even begin telling the story when Daryl pulls the pickup truck into the winding driveway of a red brick two story colonial on Vermack Ridge. 

On a low whistle, Shane continues to take stock of the fancy house, then teases, “Oh yeah, this shit just screams farmhouse to me, Rick.”

“Shut up. Let’s just get this over with.” I mutter, opening the door to the backseat almost before Daryl gets the chance to bring the pickup to a full stop. Planting my booted feet on the front porch, I take a deep breath, and lift the door knocker. Immediately I am met by not only the purchaser of the furniture, and presumably the owner of the home, but also standing closely to her side, clutching a champagne flute filled with what appears to be orange juice, is Lori. 

“Hello, Rick!” she chimes in, greeting me before the homeowner is able. 

Not even caught off guard a little bit by her presence, because I should have known she would find a way to involve herself here, I step back a bit and try to use my palm to wipe my lack of contentment from my face, then give her a short, curt nod, hopefully communicating my displeasure. That’s all the acknowledgement she gets, as I immediately channel my attention to handling my business with the purchaser of the furniture. “Mrs. Pearson, we’re ready to bring in your delivery.” Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out the delivery receipt and purchase order for her signature, more than ready to get this transaction over with. Handing it, along with a pen over to her, she brushes her manicured nails across my fingers as she accepts it from my hand. The unsettling touch causes me to jerk my hand back. 

“Yes! I’m very excited about my new pieces. So excited in fact that I just had to let my good friend Lori know it was being delivered today. I wanted to show off my new purchases!” She smirks, pronouncing her words in that drippy, fake saccharine sweet way that instantly reminds me of Lori’s family when I met them the one time they visited campus and they caught me out and about. Reaching out towards me, grasping my elbow and urging me inside of the house, the woman ushers me in to stand between her and Lori. 

Mrs. Pearson is probably in her early to mid 30s, and is dripping in what appears to be expensive jewelry, as though this early morning furniture delivery required a grander sense of style than my plaid button up and cowboy boots were prepared for. If I remember correctly, she was over dressed the same way when she and her husband came out to the shop in King County. It was another Saturday morning, much like this one, and just as she is now, her neck was adorned with pearls, her fingers and ears with diamonds, and on her arm, a less than interested husband who constantly checked his phone. What I also clearly remember from making that sale over a month ago, was her mentioning that she’s a friend of Lori’s, who recommended that she checkout our furniture. 

As though reading my mind or recognizing my discomfort at Lori’s presence she leans closer to me, and attempts what may have been supposed to be a whisper, but given the champagne laced orange juice I can smell on her breath, comes out just as loud as anything else she has said. “And Lori just had to be here to greet her beau. She wouldn’t have it any other way.” Giggling to herself, she winks at me, then gestures by cutting her eyes over her shoulder towards Lori, then back behind my head. “Oh! And you have brought some strapping friends of your own! Guess that makes it a party?”

“Hello, ma’am, I’m Shane Walsh, delivery man and sheriff’s deputy, at your service.” Offering Mrs. Pearson his hand, Shane pushes past me and enters the home behind me, giving her that wolfish smile of his that has been the preamble to many a conquest. I can even tell from where I’m standing that given the up and down look he just gave her, that he’s already made up his mind, whether she’s married or not, that he’s going to have her. This isn’t new. This is classic Shane, and despite my own misgivings about his exploits, I keep mum. We’ve had many a discussion about the morality of not only sleeping around with multiple women, which we have both been guilty of at different times in our lives, but doing so when marriage is involved. Mine or theirs. 

With the breakup of my marriage, resulting in me being unwillingly separated, I will admit that when Michonne and I spoke the other night, she had me dead to rights regarding my sexual appetite. Definitely didn’t want to discuss it with her, but deep inside there was some perverse satisfaction at hearing the disgusted way she spoke about it. I know the sight of her with that gotdamned Ezekiel, his arms around her trim waist. His shit eating grin setting on her like she hung the moon. His fucking dramatic voice, confessing his love for my wife and children. Referring to them as family. Fuck! It made me want to strangle the life from him, sending me into a rage that only the face of my baby girl finally finding peace once she had her wooby in hand, was able to quell. I wanted to knock his ass out for stepping onto my porch with my Michonne. 

But just like the pissed off scoff in her voice during our Face Time discussion gave me the tiniest glimmer of hope, the way her eyes danced over me, and skittered nervously away from my appreciative stare, I could feel that jolt again. That awakening of energy that livens my limbs, jumpstarts my heart and my senses. I could even smell the faint remnant of her expensive perfume, with just a hint of sweat, Michonne’s own fragrance that thickened my cock in my jeans. All for her. Only a love struck fool would take any of it, even her presence in King County, as some indication that there’s still love for me in Michonne’s heart. Especially given those divorce papers she had me served with.

I don’t care. I’m here, enduring the touch and grins of these women, this Saturday delivery which I never do, especially when my kids are in town, so that I can rush back to the farm and get ready for peach picking. And for Michonne. She texted last night to say she would be coming through to help, and just like I told her on the phone, this is a chance for us to rekindle a lost friendship. At least that. Though I can’t lie and say that I wouldn’t be ecstatic if there was more. I won’t rush her. I won’t rush myself. But… yeah. I just need to get to know her again. Give her a chance to get to know me again. To understand me, what I’ve done. Why I’ve done it. 

The thought of spending the day with her drags my attention back to the here and now, and just as Mrs. Pearson and Shane are flirting, and Lori is inching over to probably try to explain her appearance, Daryl’s loud voice echoes from the driveway getting us all back on track.

“Hey! I ain’t got all day for this shit! We gotta make this drop and get to the farm for peach pickin’!”

“Rick, what’s he talking about?” Lori asks, easing herself closely to my side and running her thin fingers through the long dark tresses of her brown hair. Giving Daryl a sideways look as though he is something she would find on the bottom of her shoe, she darts her gaze from him to me, awaiting an answer to my question. As though I owe her one. Maybe I do? 

Two years or so after Judith’s birth, and after Michonne and I separated, Shane talked me into getting out more. My mother was in remission, and the only things I ever did were work, and find ways to be with my kids. Fly to them. Fly them out to see me. That was it. When my alma mater, University of Tennessee, was in town playing Shane’s alma mater, UGA, in a football game, he convinced me to join him. A little football and tailgating would be good for me. Get me away from the farm, maybe distract me from what was probably a bout of depression that had set in. Shane is a good friend and a good cousin. Him staying on me about it eventually got me to give in, don an old UT t-shirt, and attend the game with him. 

During a Saturday filled with drinking, eating, football, and an evening of partying and tailgating, I ran right into her. Lori. I had completely forgotten about her. About her moving to Georgia after graduation to teach. She was there in the parking lot, about six or so spots down, wearing some of her own UT gear, partying at the RV of some fellow UT alums. Through the fog of beer and a few shots of whiskey, I recognized her skinny frame and long hair, but tried my very best to remain out of her sight. There was no desire on my part to relive that part of my life. I had moved on. But, just as I was making my way back from a thicket of bushes where I had just taken a piss, I ran right into her and her some of her friends playing cornhole. Slightly unsteady on my feet from the amount of alcohol I had consumed, I couldn’t get my boots to carry me away quicker than Lori could wrap her arms around me in a hug. 

The remainder of that night was a blur from there. I faintly remember joining Lori’s group of friends for awhile, until Shane came and found me, laughing cause he thought I must have fallen into some bushes, followed by a lewd grin alluding to the kind of bush he really meant. By adding that he guesses that I did, or that I would be, he brought his very Shane-like insinuation full circle. After Lori suggested everyone go back to her place, a small condo that she purchased near the school she was teaching at, Shane wasn’t far off on his prediction. 

That was nearly a year ago. Nearly a year that consisted of too many phone calls and texts from her, probably not enough responses from me giving her the reaction she’s desired, and just enough sex to keep the edge off. To drive away the shadows of fleeting dreams. Desires that flit away like smoke between my fingertips. Lori is great at that, taking your mind off of the demons that ride you. Making you feel as though what’s happening in that moment is all that matters. Not the true consequence of all you have or have not done. 

Depression was a reality for me for awhile I think, symptomatic of a cycle of sleep, eat, work, recycle. Though I was never diagnosed. Too stupid, too proud to actually see a doctor. Something was wrong with me though, and for a brief moment in time, right after I realized that Michonne had really frozen me out of her life, I again allowed Lori to self-medicate me with her jocular presence. A temporary balm to hide my own suffering. I will take the blame for using her in that way. 

It’s been a few months since we’ve hooked up though, but now here she is, and I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, this is the kind of thing that Lori is good at as well as being a distraction. Setups. Sneakiness. While she may be beautiful, smart, and a catch for some man, that man ain’t me. I married the woman for me, and regardless of how bleak things have been over the last few years, I’m ready to be hopeful again. 

Anxious is more like it, which is new for me. But I’ll take it because that anxiety is a sign of rebirth. Perhaps I can survive this separation in one piece? 

Dipping his head into the doorway, probably aggravated that no one heeded his last yelled command, Daryl grabs a hold of my shirtsleeve and drags me back outside. “Hey, Rick, did you hear me? Let’s get going. You told the kids we’d be back in two hours, and I told Carl and Dre I would show them how to shoot a crossbow today. I plan on keepin’ my promise.” He huffs off back towards the truck. 

“Rick, wait. Hey, what is he talking about peach picking? At your family’s farm?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s the season.” Frustrated at Daryl giving Lori any sight into any activities that involve my kids, I hastily give her as little details as possible. 

“Oh, ok. We haven’t talked really since your kids came into town. We should catch up.”

“Yeah, I haven’t had much time. Been busy. I got stuff, thangs to do.”

“I understand completely! I’m a teacher, so if you need any help with them I’m happy to assist. Kids can be a handful.” Pausing for a moment, as she flips her long hair over her shoulder, she wraps her arms around mine, pushing herself close to my side, she offers in a lower voice. “And maybe I can help with you too. I’m sure you could use a…release? Keeping up with three kids is a lot. I just want to help, Rick. Don’t you think it’s time for you to let me do that?”

Gently, not wanting to hurt her feelings, but also not wanting there to be any misunderstanding, I pull my arm from her clutches. “Lori, we should talk. Not right now. I don’t have the time, but soon.”

“I agree. We should talk, and catch up.”

“No. Not like that. I-”

“Rick!” Daryl hollers again, his impatience growing with each moment that I’m still talking to Lori, and Shane is still flirting with Mrs. Pearson, and no one is helping him move the furniture into the house. 

“I’m coming!” Rubbing my palm down my face, I’m going back and forth in my head, arguing with myself, growing weary of it all. Should I just tell her now or another time when we have more privacy? As I’m thinking it over, Shane trots out of the house, breezing by where Lori and I are standing on the walkway. Slapping me on the back, he gives me a wide grin, one that shows just about all of his teeth, and I decide to at least give her enough respect to not do this here in front of everyone. “Listen, Lori, we should talk. My children are here, and right now all of my time belongs to them. When I have some free time I will call you. Ok?”

“When?”

“Soon.” I promise, and I mean that. Settling things with Lori is a priority actually. It’s something I need to ensure I get done as soon as possible, so that there is nothing that stands between Michonne and I getting back together. Because I’ll be damned if I sign those divorce papers. 

XXXXXXX

‘So many tears I've cried  
So much pain inside  
But baby it ain't over 'til it's over  
So many years we've tried  
To keep our love alive  
But baby it ain't over 'til it's over…’

“Hey, Jr., you mind if I turn this down for a second? Wanna talk for a moment?”

Looking over towards my bedroom door, I find my father, his shoulder leaned up against the frame, a pensive look on his face. I study him for a moment before I answer, taking stock of the man in his usual uniform of dark blue jeans, cowboy boots, and plaid button up. The man who has been the catalyst for so much of what’s happened in my life. Moving our family from King County to Atlanta. Separating our family after the divorce. Then calling me back here to finally fulfill the promise I’d made. 

Despite my disappointments in him, or his actions, our relationship has always weathered the ups and downs. There was a time when we were almost like friends, hanging out, drinking, talking all the time. But this time a hardened bitterness has settled between us the longer I am estranged from my wife and kids. Our once jovial banter has become a series of hastily spoken words, usually updates on my mother or things with the businesses, orders from me on what to work on, what medicine to pickup, reminders of what appointments not to miss. But nothing like the camaraderie we once shared. We both know why, but never speak out loud the words. 

None of the words that could be said have even been sufficient. They ones we want to levy at each other. Drop hastily at the other’s feet, maybe just to even get a response. Blame. Guilt. Maybe even one that I try to avoid at all costs. Regret. 

What use is it? It’s a symptom of knowing you’ve made a wrong choice. Wishing you could fix it. Realistically unable to change a damn thing. Living with the emptiness of taking the wrong path. Even if there are days, nights, moments of my existence where I find a quiet second. A brief interlude where there’s no whirring of saws, banging of hammers, click-clack of pills in medicine bottles, childlike laughter, computers, bills, phones… Where nothing exists but my memories, where I fall into it. I won’t call it regret for what I’ve lost. Instead I think of it as a moment for reverie. A conscious choice to meander through more pleasant times, daydreams of a future existence that my heart is still set on. One that lately feels more possible than it has in recent years. One where I’m with my family, my wife, every day. Every night. Always.

It’s what I planned when for when I said my vows six years ago. It’s what I’m going to fight to get back. It’s a promise I made myself when I laid eyes on the woman I love a few days ago. When I saw the emotion she still carries for me still evident in her soft gaze, even as it was dampened by the dark edges of sadness, and half-heartedly masked by false happiness. Michonne still loves me. I’m going to prove it, I promise myself, as I rake the comb back through my hair one last time, then drop it on my dresser, inching it the side where no less than ten picture frames with my kids’ images stare back at me. Even Michonne’s and my wedding picture is there, in the middle. Its silver frame holding onto the memory of one of the happiest days of my life. 

“Sure. Come on in.” I nod, but I don’t turn off my music, nor do I turn it down. I don’t expect this chat to last much longer than any of them usually do. Because the truth is that we don’t have father – son talks much anymore. Our lives have been boiled down to duty. Bound by what we must do, not always what we want to do. Littered with sentiments, fits and starts to clear the air, that never come to fruition. 

Turning to a seat resting next to where I’m standing in front of the dresser, getting ready after returning from delivering furniture and showering, my father picks up the trucks, dinosaurs, and princess wand occupying the chair. Inspecting each item as though he’s categorizing which of his grandchildren each of them belongs to, a small twitch of his lips brings to life the weathered handsomeness of his face. A face that has aged quite a bit with the stress of life’s circumstances.

“They do seem to leave their presence everywhere don’t they?”

“Yeah, they do.” I agree, chuckling that even before I could take a shower, I had to remove ducks, battleships, and soap crayons from the tub. 

“It’s a wonderful thing. When the kids are here. So lively. Reminds me of when you and Jeff were kids, playing everyday with Michonne and Glenn.” The mention of her name interjects something new into the conversation, and I can’t help but narrow my eyes at his use of the name he hasn’t spoken in years. 

“Ok.”

“Your grandfather said he saw her a couple of nights ago. That she came by here with a friend of hers. Her boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” I admit, dropping my eyes in shame, as I punch at one hand with the other at the remembrance of that night.

“Boyfriend?”

“That’s what he called himself.” I answer feeling myself growing upset at him repeating the question. Needling me with what it implies about how far apart Michonne and I really are. 

“You ok with that? Your wife having a boyfriend?”

“I will tell you like I told her, what I like and what I want don’t seem to matter much to anyone anymore. But don’t worry, whatever he thinks he is to her, he won’t be that for much longer.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. That’s right.”

“Ok then.” Nodding his head, he purses his lips, thinning them into a flat line as he seems to be carefully thinking over his next words. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” He raps his knuckles against the wooden arm of the chair he’s seated in, adding finality to his words, then leans back. Making himself comfortable. “The kids say their mama promised to come peach picking today.” Focusing on my face, as though he’s reading my reaction to everything he’s saying, he finally raises his greying eyebrows, and a gentle grin creeps across his face. 

Tilting my head, wondering where this conversation is coming from, and where it’s going, I fold my arms over my chest and question out loud what’s going through my head. “Is this going somewhere, Dad? I have to get outside and make sure everything is ready to go.” 

Raising his right leg, to rest his booted foot on his knee, he folds his arms and answers my question. “You don’t need a lot of flowery, big words today, son. You and Michonne is an inevitability, and I’m sorry if my bullshit, and insecurities stalled that out. I am truly sorry. Everyday that I see you here, guilt tears at my gut, but… you know me. I’m not good with apologies, and weakness, and that’s my shit to deal with. I want you to know that you’re not me. My failures are not yours to repeat. You are more of a man, a leader, a husband than I’ve ever been, and I know that. We all do. Things break, but they can still grow. Look at your mama and me. I absolutely do not deserve another moment with her. I don’t. And I think my life’s punishment was to have to watch the woman I have loved nearly all my life suffer. To watch my son suffer. Watch my grandbabies shuffle between here and there. That’s my fault.” Sniffing, he steels his jaw, and huffs, seemingly sucking in the emotion that would betray him and cloud his features. “It’s enough now though. I’m gonna help you fix this, son. Now’s the time for your broken life to grow again.”

My father’s transparency in this moment causes my own eyes to sting, but I blink back the sensation. Instead I purse my lips, suck them in between my teeth and clamp down. Grimes men, we’re lovers. We’re fighters. We’re the ones who do what needs to be done when others don’t. Won’t. Because of that I think we forget to give ourselves permission to feel. To simply take in the hurt of what all that loving and fighting and action does to us emotionally. My father is right. His decision to handle things one way, forced me to handle them another, and the suffering caused by both of our approaches isn’t lost on him, he’s just too paralyzed in his own shit to stop it. I guess that is until now. Maybe it’s too late though? Perhaps Michonne is truly lost to me…our love sailed too far into the storm from it’s safer port?

Grinding my fist across my lips I mumble out, inching the words in pieces so as not to spill the insecurity of my marriage’s predicament. “I appreciate that, Dad, but… it isn’t that simple. She served me with divorce papers, and I gotta find a way to get myself out of signing ‘em.”

“Don’t sign them. Just don’t. Michonne is in your blood and I suspect you’re still in hers. Remind her of that. As this fella on the radio just said, it ain’t over til it’s over.”

My father’s words almost move me to tears. Truly. The weight of my emotional burden is heavy. But his admittance of his faults, of his belief that I can fix this? It makes me feel light, buoyant. Nodding. Grinning, I allow the feeling to move through me. To touch my heart. “Yeah, I know that now.”

“Help her remember, son. But first, there is a woman outside looking for you. She is not your wife. I understand that your wife’s arrival is imminent. I would like to know how you want me to handle that?”

“What? What woman is outside looking for me?” Marching over to my window that overlooks the side of the house where the barn, and the main gate where most of the folks who will be visiting the farm today are going to arrive, I don’t instantly recognize anyone familiar. 

“Pulled up just a few moments ago while I was working with the kids in the woodshop.” Looking down at his own hands, rubbing the weathered digits over each other, he seems lost in his own thoughts, and rambles away. “Ya know, your kids might be better at making furniture than you or Jeff. That Andre has a real good eye for the aesthetics of good workmanship. Knows what wood is best for what piece. Carl too if he can stop playing those iPad games for a second. He’s good with his hands. Even my baby girl can hammer in a nail without bending it when she sets her mind on it. Gonna teach her to use a power drill soon.”

Frowning, growing frustrated with his meandering, I can feel myself getting nervous and anxious at who this woman might be, and I turn away from him to stare back out the window towards the woodshop, hoping against hope that it’s not who I think it is. I don’t see her in the few people who filter in and out of the doors. It’s opened today to allow visitors to the farm to come in and see the process we go through to hand make our furniture, and hopefully to buy something. Furniture, fruit, preserves, pies, chutney. 

After my mother went into remission, I began getting serious about turning this place around as I realized that that was the only way I was ever going to be free again. I had been here for my mother when she needed me, now I needed to figure out how to keep the promise that I’d made to my father over ten years ago to make our family businesses a success. It’s been slow going, and it’s not the run away success that I was hoping for but, the changes I have made around here have been positive. 

Turning peach picking season into a festival and showcase of sorts was the first part of my plan that I implemented. Our family always had decent sales of our produce and furniture in town, but once I made the beginning of peach picking season, a way for people from Atlanta who wanted a taste of country life to come out and pick their own fruit, ride the horses, picnic on the land, swim in the pond, and checkout some furniture, we became known for it. Especially after Shane had a little fling with a lifestyle editor for one of the most popular magazines in Georgia, and she did a feature on Grimes Family Farms and Furniture. We’ve become very popular, and now that Maggie is even working on getting us to the point where our website is up and running, and we can take orders for just about anything online. I’m hoping that will be the last piece to make this place profitable enough that I won’t have to be here everyday. Maybe I can run this place from anywhere in the world with Maggie’s help. And with Jeff’s. 

He’s graduating with his MBA this year, and after proposing to Maggie’s sister Beth, and deciding on a late summer wedding, he’s ready to settle down here in King County so that Beth can keep working with her father in his veterinary practice. And give me the room to follow my own path again. Be my own man.

Everything is falling into place, and with Michonne being back in town until October, I would be lying if I didn’t feel the hand of fate here, telling me that it’s time for me to set things right again. 

Before I can do that though, I have to figure out who my father said is looking for me. Pulling him back to the conversation, I turn towards him. “Dad, can you focus for a minute? You said a woman was looking for me? Do you know who it was?”

“Yep. It was Lori. She asked me where you were. I told her I would see if you’re available.” Rising from his chair, he approaches me and in a way that he hasn’t in years, he places a hand on my shoulder, and gives me that fatherly squeeze he used to give when Jeff and I were in trouble. “What do you want me to tell her?”

“Uh…tell her I’m not here.”

“Tell her you’re not here? At your own farm?”

“No wait. You’re right that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nah it doesn’t. But you should probably think of something quickly, cause if I remember correctly, Michonne is always punctual. And well, son, it’s peach picking time.” He chuckles, and with his hand to my back, guides me out of my bedroom, and downstairs to figure out how to get rid of Lori before my wife shows up. “And it’s time for you to get your wife back.”

XXXXX

“Wow! Did you make that all by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“It’s very nice. Where did you learn to make something like that?”

“My daddy.”

“Oh yeah? Well I’m Lori, I’m a friend of your daddy’s. What’s your name?”

“I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers.” Andre answers, absentmindedly pushing the tiny wooden car that he and I have been working on, back and forth over the counter behind the register. I can tell by the focus of his eyes, narrowed in on the way the wheels turn, that he’s considering whether or not he should sand them more, add more graphite to the axels. We discussed this yesterday in the workshop. Andre is lighthearted, and a joker, but he is very much a perfectionist. When my father notes that the boys are gifted with woodworking, he is telling the truth. I’ve been working with them since they were strong enough to hold a hammer, and I can honestly say that even if they weren’t my children, I would be impressed with both Carl and Andre’s skill. It is something to see a five-year-old sketch out a rudimentary idea for a wooden car, and he and his brother build it with minimal help. 

“Well, I’m not really a stranger since I’m a friend of your father’s. A really good friend. So, see? You can tell me your name, and you and I can be friends too. Wouldn’t you like that?”

“No. You’re too old to be my friend.”

Laughing a little into her hand, Lori leans down further into Andre’s space, inspecting the car he continues to distractedly play around with instead of fully engaging her. For a moment I decide to hang back, and I watch their interaction from behind a wooden column by the front door, out of sight.

Lori’s feathers aren’t ruffled by Andre’s seeming dismissal of her efforts. If anything her training as a teacher has probably prepared her for this kind of behavior, and it seems like she’s digging her heels in. Insistent on making a connection of some sort with my son as she begins to now ask him questions about the car instead of about himself. How clever. 

That’s Lori. Clever. Calculating. This doesn’t seem to resonate with Andre though. Her usual tactics of drawing others in, ineffective on my son. It’s as though he can sniff out the inauthenticity in her desire to interact with him. And just as I suspected the many times she asked about meeting the kids, it was really just about sinking her claws deeper into me. I wasn’t interested then, and seeing the fake way that she’s trying to work over my son, I’m definitely not interested now. 

Just as I’m about to put an end to the meeting that I was adamant I didn’t want to happen in the first place, Michonne enters from the back of the pole barn with Judith in her arms, and Carl leading the way. Shit.

“Dre?”

“Here I am, Mama. Wif Daddy’s friend.” Andre answers, his attention now summoned by his mother’s appearance. Immediately he runs to hug his mother, no longer a care in the world for his car or for Lori. 

“With Daddy’s friend?”

“Hello, I’m Lori. I’m Rick’s girlfriend.” Lori stands to her full height, and offers her hand in greeting to Michonne. 

With a tilted uptick of her lips, not a full grin, but not a smirk either, Michonne accepts Lori’s hand. “Yes, we’ve met before. Many years ago. I’m Rick’s wife.”

“Technically.”

“In every way that matters.” 

Bucking her eyes at the succinct clip of Michonne’s response, Lori seems taken aback by her bluntness. I have to admit, I am a little as well, but I won’t lie and say it doesn’t give me a little thrill to hear Michonne laying her claim on me. It stiffens my spine. Pulls a twitchy grin to my lips. There’s that hopefulness again. 

“Either way, it’s nice to meet you. Again. And to meet Rick’s children. I’ve seen their pictures that he has on his phone, but this is the first time I’ve seen them in person. They’re all so beautiful.” Lori’s eyes travel over the faces of each of my children, I assume cataloguing their features, making a mental note of which resemble mine, and which belong to my wife. “Let me see. I’ve met Andre here.” Crouching down she gives her attention to Carl. “You must be Carl?”

“That’s me.”

“You are a handsome fella. You look a lot like your father.”

“My mama says that too. Says that’s why I’m gonna be trouble.” Carl answers, his attention mostly focused on showing Andre something in his hands.

“I can see why. What’s that you have cupped in your hands?”

“Something I found for me and my brother.”

“Can I see?”

Without warning, Carl opens his hands and out hops a frog, seeking its freedom from the sticky hands of little boys. Jumping on its springy legs, the frog bounces onto Lori’s chest, sends her hands flailing and swinging at it, attempting to swat it away from her as Carl and Andre run around trying to recapture the poor thing. 

“Don’t hit my frog!” Carl hollers, scolding Lori for fending off the wild hops of the animal. Reaching his hands up in the air trying to catch the amphibian as it escapes Lori’s strikes, Carl’s face is turning red and for a second I wonder if I should step in. Nah, I’m kind of enjoying this, which I can also see that Michonne is as well as she stands there laughing at the boys skittering around the storefront, trying to avoid knocking over furniture, while they attempt to snatch their slippery prize. Judith is enjoying the scene as well, clapping her hands, and egging her brothers on, pointing out where she sees the frog hiding. 

With my hand over my mouth I have to hold my own snickers in, and try to maintain my hidden position behind the column without being spotted. 

When the boys finally get their hands back on the frog, they instantly dart back outside, ready to get into who knows what. 

Lori finally seems to have calmed herself once the boys, and the frog exit. Smoothing down her ruffled dress. Standing, with her palm covering her chest as she heaves out a series of heavy breaths, she gulps a few times, then gathering herself, gives her attention to Michonne. “That was… something.”

“Yeah. Well they’re little boys who live on a farm. You never know what critters they are going to find. Rick and I used to terrorize our little brothers with mice we found in the barn.”

Grimacing, twisting her face in disgust, Lori gasps, “Mice?”

“Yep. Mice. We used to get into all kinds of trouble out here. I guess the kids are following in our footsteps.” Michonne quietly laughs more to herself than anything at her nostalgic recall of our shared childhood. Her eyes soften for a moment, face relaxing as she roams her eyes over the storefront that is a new addition to the workshop, but hopefully seeing that even still some things remain the same. Eventually, she looks over to Judith, and drops a tiny peck to her chubby cheek. 

Judith grins at her mother, and gives her a kiss back, giggling at the joyful moment. They are both oblivious to not only my clandestine consumption of the sweet mother daughter moment, one that warms my heart at seeing my girls connect. At witnessing something that our estrangement and my absence has not permitted me to see often enough. It wounds me to realize this. Strikes me in a way that emboldens my resolve to rectify this situation. To do as my grandfather and father have suggested, and set things right. 

I’m about to make my presence known, when Lori, seemingly coming out of a bit of a daze at also seeing the moment between mother and daughter, she reaches for Judith. “You must be Judith?”

Uncharacteristically, at the slight brush of Lori’s fingers against her arm, Judith shyly clings tightly to her mother, with her arms wrapped around Michonne’s neck and shoulders. 

Judith doesn’t answer, and when Lori attempts to reach for her again, she clasps on to her mother tighter, whimpering at Lori’s advances. Judith isn’t shy at all, and her response is, like her brothers’, quite telling. My kids don’t know any strangers. Andre may be a little wary, Carl seemingly disinterested, and Judith uncomfortable with Lori, but the reality is that most of the time they love meeting new people. When customers come to the farm or the workshop they have no problem chatting them up, telling them about themselves, their favorite things, asking if they have games on their phones. But as my grandmother used to say, children and animals have an innocence about them that allows them to sniff out bullshit. And well, maybe they’ve done just that with Lori?

Stepping out from my hiding spot, I approach my wife and daughter, reaching for Judith to soothe her agitation. Rubbing my hand in circles across her back, I place a little kiss on her temple, and then without thought really, kind of functioning on an innate auto pilot I do the same to Michonne. It just felt natural to step in this way, to be by her side, to calm my child. To kiss my wife.

It doesn’t even seem to catch Michonne off guard. Maybe she senses the casualness of such an interaction between us. How right it seems to gravitate to each other when in the other’s presence. 

Lori on the other hand, she’s clearly thrown by my actions, by Michonne’s receptiveness to it, and Judith’s keening under the attentive eye of her parents. Her eyes bounce from me to Michonne, to Judith, then back. Her lips flatten into a thin line. 

“Well if you’ll excuse me, that’s enough meet and greet.” Hugging Judith to her side with both arms now, Michonne nods towards Lori, gifting her with a subtle smile as she turns to leave. Looking my way she announces, “I’m gonna go to the stables before we start picking peaches. I want to check on my horse.” With only a short flutter of her fingers, she leaves, heading back towards the workshop to exit in the rear, closer to the stables.

For the briefest of moments, not even a split second, I feel sorry for Lori. The sudden way the plastered smile she painfully held while attempting to fruitlessly connect with my children, and unexpectedly encountering my wife, instantly falls in defeat, is hard to witness. Only a deep sigh follows, her chin dropping to her chest, until she maybe realizes how she must look, and then once again, she’s sporting her game face. Dusting wisps of her shiny, dark hair from her face, ready again to perform her role.

This whole thing, the merry go round that Lori and I rode for years, with me jumping off to be with Michonne, then pointlessly jumping back on to find a little comfort while I licked my wounds, is rusted. Worn out. A broken relic of the times in my life when I was unable to have what I wanted. To courageously articulate and execute on my own dreams, and was instead comfortable with allowing the spin of this ride, powered by the whims of others, to carry me over the humps of my life. 

I don’t want to be that man anymore though. Never really wanted to in the first place. But like so many men before me, one particular man in fact, I allowed fear to steer my ship. Other forces to guide my path. I recognize my own weakness, my fear of failure, regret, resentment, its embodiment standing before me, wearing a flower print sundress and a pair of cowboy boots. Offering me the ease of allowing someone else, something else, to choose my life for me. 

Resting my hands on my hips as I offer this woman this very last piece of myself that I’m willing to sacrifice for my own growth, I smile briefly in recognition of who she is. A technically beautiful woman. A smart, savvy strategist. She will make a fine wife for some man. I’m just not that man. I already have a fine wife. A great wife. The best.

“Rick, guess I finally found you.”

“Did you get what you were looking for, Lori?”

“What do you mean?”

“You met my kids. Regardless of me telling you I wasn’t ready for that. You pushed the issue. You got what you wanted. Right?”

“Rick, I- I just thought maybe you were being silly about this. You know how you can be about your family. Took me forever to get you to bring me home back in college. You just needed a little push like always.”

“No. I didn’t. But that’s what you do, what I’ve allowed you to do. You push. I don’t stop you. But, this? My kids? That’s different. I told you no for a reason. This thing with us is not permanent. And because of that I didn’t want you meeting my kids, confusing them.”

“Confusing them about what, Rick? I’m not confused.”

Lowering my voice as I nod at a few customers you move about the showroom, I try to contain our discussion and not draw too much attention. “No, you’re not. You know exactly what you’re doing, and you know exactly how I feel. You just don’t care. That’s my fault though. I’ve given you every reason to believe that you can have your way. Not anymore though. My kids didn’t need to be confused about their mother’s place in my life. Michonne is still my wife. We may… we may have lost our way for a bit, but, that doesn’t change the way I feel about her. Not one bit. You telling my kids that you’re my girlfriend, saying that to Michonne? Coming here uninvited? You’ve crossed a line and I can’t forgive that.”

Moving towards me, Lori comes to a stop so close that her breasts nearly rest against my chest. “What about her, Rick?”

“What about her?”

“You think she’s just waiting around for you? You don’t think she has a boyfriend who’s doing with her exactly what you do with me?” Her words sicken me in their truthfulness. Stun me into silence. “Rick, this is what you do. You can’t make up your mind, so you force me to do it for you. That’s all this is. Your feathers are ruffled, but I have the fix for that.” Placing her palms flat against my chest, she drops her eyes, almost as though she’s bashful, but when she lifts them to me I recognize what she really wants. What her fix is. I don’t need fixing. 

“You keep that. Whatever this toxic thing was with us is over.”

Allowing her tone to raise, her voice to become shrill with anger and spite, Lori asserts herself. “She won’t take you back, Rick. I know you. You’ve allowed too much space to grow between you. You’re not kids running barefoot around this farm anymore. You can’t live in that past. Wake up! You and your little best friend have grown up, and apart. It’s time to move on.”

Gently gripping both of her wrists, I circle my fingers around her delicate bones, and remove her touch from my chest, and back to her side. “You’re right. It is time to move on. That’s why you should go. There’s a man out there who will be happy with what you’re offering, but that man isn’t me. I have a wife, children. I have a family. They are my past, my present, and my future. I’m done pretending I can live any kind of life with them. Without her.”

“But-”

“You should go.” Sidestepping Lori before she can offer any other rebuttal, any words that might force me to be harsher with her, I follow in the direction that my wife took earlier. Taking the path that will lead me back to her.

XXXXX

“You’re such a flirt, Shane, I swear!”

“What? The woman came on to me. What was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know, remind her that she’s married and walk away?”

“Now why would I do that? Ain’t my vows being broken.”

A deep sigh comes from Michonne, and as my steps carry me closer to her up the pathway between the rows of the large sweet smelling peach orchard along the back half of our farm, the greenery conceals my approach amongst the trees, and I can barely make out a soft mutter from her. “Well, it isn’t so easy to…break those vows. You remember that.” Dropping her head, she eases a few peaches into the basket she’s using to collect her haul. 

Pausing to consider her response to his claim, Shane seems to see how his words have hit a little too close to home for her. They halted me a bit as well. The truth hurts, though, and they’re both right. “Hey, Chonne, I ain’t mean nothing by that. You know that right? You and Rick, that’s different.” He offers as somewhat of an apology, lifting Judith on his shoulders for her to continue grasping her small hands around the fleshy fruit to give it a tiny squeeze to check the ripeness of the Goldprince and Southern Pearl cultivars of peaches that we grow here. She may be growing up partially in LA, but I see that my baby is a southern girl at heart. 

“Maybe.” Michonne nods, and swipes the back of her hand across her forehead, wiping the sweat from her brow. 

With the sun still high in the sky, cascading its glow across the land, bathing my wife in its beams, my breath arrests with the full sight of her. In a tank top, her shoulders, arms, and back are bared to me, as is the glint of her gold necklace, from which the ‘M’ charm I gave her rests, along with another treasure I’ve given to her. Her wedding ring. Settling close to her round full breasts, I have no choice but lick my lips, control my impulse to run to her. Grab her up in my arms and bury my face in the sun kissed warmth of her skin. 

Michonne drags her hand across her shoulders, calling my attention to the scar on her collarbone that nearly blends with her coloring now. Faded with time. The same one she earned from the jagged tip of a wayward branch in the thicket of trees that border this very farm. How many days and nights have I placed my lips there, kissing away the memory of her screaming at the sting of her injury. Sweat beads across my own forehead, and I can feel myself growing hot, wondering if its from seeing her this way, the specter of our lives together heavy in the air, emitting from the memories embedded in the land, branded on our hearts, or from the heat of this early summer day. 

Swallowing thickly, opening and then closing her mouth as though she’s hesitant to speak, Michonne sends her gaze to her right, surveying the land, then raises her wrist to check her watch.

“Judy Bear, it’s about naptime. I don’t know where your father is, but I’m gonna take you into the house ok?”

“Nooo, Mama! No nap!”

Approaching the small gathering, I unceremoniously reach up for Judith and pluck her easily from Shane’s shoulders. “Hey, it’s time to take a little nap like your mother said, ok?” Keeping my tone firm, brooking no argument from our whining toddler.

Rubbing at her eyes with her tiny fists, making it clear that after a long day of eating, playing, running with her brothers, and picking peaches, she gives the signal that it’s definitely time for her to take a nap. At three years old, Judith adamantly disagrees, every day, every time we bring up naps, but if she doesn’t take them we’re all going to pay for it, so I don’t let the water gathering in her large, blue eyes to sway me. 

“Daddy, no nap!”

“Yes. Nap. Come on.”

“I’ll take her, Rick. I need to clean myself up some anyway. I told your mother I would help her in the kitchen for dinner.”

“Oh yeah, you’re gonna stick around a little longer?”

Tilting her head, a bit of a challenge in her tone, Michonne questions me. “You got a problem with that, Rick?”

“Absolutely not. You’re always welcome here, sweetheart. This is your home.” I declare, hoping that she understands exactly what I’m telling her. We haven’t had much opportunity to be together today, not like I had hoped. The large crowds of people that we’ve brought in have been good for business, but bad for me catching up with Michonne. She spent most of her time helping customers who are not familiar with the proper way to pick peaches. How to check if the ground color of the fruit is that yellow/orange gold color, as those are the ripest to pick. How to firmly palm the flesh, but to tenderly pluck its stem from the tree, free of bruises. Michonne has always been good at this, her touch assured but gentle. It’s her general way with everything I suppose, charging ahead with certainty, but always mindful of keeping a measured approach. It’s why she’s so successful. And it’s probably why my grandfather asked her to help out back here with the city folk as he calls them, making sure they don’t make a mess of his orchard. 

After ensuring that Lori left the farm without further argument, I searched for and found the boys behind the house, by the pond with Daryl, and just as he promised, he was teaching them to shoot with a bow. Having secured their frog in a small box, they were taking turns learning a new skill. Taking note that they were fully occupied, and reminded by my longtime friend that they were under the watchful eye of their Uncle Daryl, I took my leave of them and headed into the workshop and store front to see how things were going. 

My father was holding court there, being his usual charming self. Though he wasn’t talkative, he was affable, easy to like. Handsome enough that women were drawn to his measured way of communicating, locking them in with his electric blue eyes. And not too handsome that men felt intimidated by his alpha posturing. Joining him I helped out a bit, sold two rocking chairs that I had recently finished myself, and spoke proudly to an architect from the city who was admiring the sketches and progress of a doll house that the boys and I are building for Judith. 

Promising that once the house is done, I may be open to take a commission for another, one for his own daughter, I took my leave of him, and decided, with my wife and daughter fresh on my mind, to go find them as well. 

As Michonne gathers Judith from my arms, she gives me a brief once over, her eyes intent, searching, set on my own. Possibly digging for the underlying intent in my words, questioning the kiss I laid on her earlier. Wondering. Thinking it over. I lay myself bare for her though, I make myself plain. It’s the only way I know how to be with her. It’s what she deserves from me after what I’ve done to her, to us, to our family. 

“You belong with your family. We belong with you. All of us.” Before I can stop myself, wonder at her response to my words or my actions, I’m cupping the side of her face with my palm. Grazing my thumb over the silk of her skin. Her cheek is soft, warm from her work and the sun, and in that moment I keep moving forward. My will is not strong enough, and I lower my face to hers and place another gentle kiss on her. This time to her heart shaped lips. 

Only the subsequent “Ew, Daddy!” from my daughter breaks the spell Michonne’s full lips have on me, and causes me to subtly pull back from her. But not completely out of her space. I can’t. The sweet scent of her sweat, stickily glistening across her face, her bosom safely cushioning where her wedding ring settles, it all sends a jolt through me so strong I almost reach for her again, sending me back into her orbit. She’s my sun. Because I don’t care that Shane stands a few feet away from us, grinning, his head swinging back and forth between Michonne and I. Waiting on her reaction. It’s like he’s watching a tennis match, waiting on her to return my serve. 

It doesn’t matter. I don’t care that there is a wall of separation between my wife and I that time and circumstance have stubbornly erected with my own sacrifice adding its labor to it’s production. I simply do not care. That wall means nothing. I will scale it. Knock it down with my bare hands as easily as I allowed it to be built. Anything to get to her. To have her. 

The only thing that shakes me fully free of the desire that clouds my senses is the way Michonne quickly raises her delicate fingers to her lips, dancing across where I’ve left my kiss, then inches them out to my own lips, re-electrifying our connection. 

Dammit, I want her right now. This minute. My fingers skim against each other, energized to action but-

Twisting her lips and frowning up at me, Judith’s baby like voice crushes through the haze. “Daddy! Ew! You kiss Mama!”

Blinking away the fog, I hear her voice. “I- ahem. I-” I stutter against Michonne’s finger, almost apologizing though I’m not sorry. But she surreptitiously halts my words and drags her finger down from my lips, grazing my chin, softly against the Adam’s apple that bobs restlessly in my throat, then rests in the open neckline of my shirt on my chest. My eyes won’t leave hers. Hers won’t leave mine, not until she turns slowly on her heel, and sways her sexy ass up the orchard path that will lead her to the house. And if the hound dog in me had its way, I would follow her pretty ass right now and have my way with her. 

Clapping me across the back so hard I almost stumble, Shane raises his eyebrows, wiggling them suggestively and lets out a holler. “Wooow shit! My boy still got it, huh?”

“What?”

“I haven’t seen you and her like that in a long ass time. It’s about damn time too.” Clapping his hands together he turns me towards the tree he was working on. “Come on and cool off, Casanova. Help me finish with this tree so Granddad doesn’t cuss me for not finishing what I started.”

“I need to-”

“Yeah I’m sure you fucking do, but give her a minute. I don’t think she’s going anywhere.”

“Why you say that?”

“Just a hunch, cuz. Come on. Quicker you finish here, quicker you can finish chasing after your wife.” 

XXXXX

“How many times  
Did we give up  
But we always worked things out  
And all my doubts and fear  
Kept me wondering  
If I'd always, always be in love…”

I mumble the lyrics of the classic song to myself, restless, unable to sleep. Thoughts racing. Constantly meandering back to think of her. My brain won’t stop. It’s like the very idea that she’s been here all day, that’s she upstairs in my bed sleeping right now… it won’t let me rest. I’ve gotten up from the couch and approached the stairs more than once, rationalizing that I just need to check and see if she has what she needs. If she’s comfortable. Not too warm. Not too cold. 

After peach picking, helping my mother around the kitchen, then staying for dinner, it got late in the evening and the kids wanted Michonne to stick around for bath and story time. Heading way past their usual nine o’clock bedtime, the kids were in a good mood, being silly, running around, seemingly just enjoying their mother and I both being there to manage their evening rituals. It didn’t get past me that Andre and Carl both kept begging for one more chapter of Michonne’s reading of The Hobbit. Or that every time Michonne and I tried to close the kids’ bedroom door to finalize bedtime, someone wanted water, someone had to pee, someone needed Daddy to check under the bed for monsters, someone wanted one more hug, and on and on and on… Until finally the kids ran out of excuses, and steam, and bid us a final good night. 

I won’t lie and say that it didn’t feel good, maybe even a little odd, to have my wife here tonight. Perhaps we all felt that way. My mother seemed so happy to have her help in the kitchen, despite the fact that Michonne isn’t really a great cook. When I came in the house looking for her, ready to eat dinner, and hoping to get some alone time to talk with her, she wasn’t doing more than sitting at the kitchen island, drinking a glass of milk with a piece of pie and talking to my mother. Halting their laughter and talking as soon as I walked in, with me only catching the few words “the babies keep coming!”, they were clearly enjoying each other’s company. So much so that not only did my mother talk Michonne into staying for dinner, but Granddad, who was the real star of the evening, somehow convinced her to spend the night here. All he had to do was remind her that with the rain coming in, and the late hour, it was simply too dangerous for her to be driving these dark country roads tonight. I kept mum because I didn’t want her opinion to be swayed by my feedback, but in the back of my mind I was on pins and needles hoping she would stay. 

She stayed. I offered her my bedroom, a pair of old pajamas I had, and I took the couch. She stayed. 

And now I can’t think about anything else. Anyone else. Because…well…she stayed. She didn’t have to. She could have left. The apartment she’s staying at in town isn’t that far away. But, she didn’t. She’s here, and I’ll be damned if that doesn’t also mean something. Right?

Even the cadence of the rain outside, covering the earth, tapping its steady rhythm against the roof and the windows of the house, a sound that usually lulls me into a comforting sleep, isn’t working tonight. 

With my arms propped behind my head on a pillow up against the arm of the couch, I can faintly make out the sound of a door opening upstairs, and the creaking of that one board in the hallway between my bedroom and the kids’ room. It’s probably Carl. That boy had nearly three glasses of lemonade at dinner. I shouldn’t have let him. Normally I wouldn’t, but I was distracted. Watching her laugh. Joke with the kids and my parents. Even my father who seemed to be in an especially good mood today was teasing her about not wearing cowboy boots out to the farm. She should know better. My father doesn’t go a day without a pair of them, and that’s been a thing forever down here. Michonne laughed it off, but promised she would dig them out of her luggage and wear them next time. 

Next time. There would be a next time.

Rubbing my hand over my tired eyes, I pinch them a little with my index finger and thumb, then squeeze them closed tightly. My body is exhausted. It’s been a long day. I need the rest, smarting at the strain in my shoulders as I stretch my limbs and try to get comfortable on this old couch. I can hear the wind howling now as the rain picks up, coming down even harder, then followed by the telltale sign of a true southern storm. Thunder. A pulse of lightning rips through the sky, illuminating the darkness outside of the living room window. 

Closing my eyes, I try to relax, to allow nature’s rumblings to lull me into dreamland, but just as I feel myself sinking into the cushions, my body growing heavy with the pending slumber, I hear a soft, familiar whisper.

“Rick?”

“Huh?”

“Rick?”

Cracking my eyes open I make out the outline of her curvy frame against the backdrop of the living room window. Draped in the overwhelming size of my pajama top, with her long, bare legs peaking out from the bottom, Michonne is standing next to the couch, reaching a hand out to me. Wordlessly, she beckons to me with a simple wiggle of her fingers. Of course my body responds without question because I recognize this. 

Accepting her hand, I toss away my blanket, and allow my wife to lead me upstairs to my bedroom. Quietly, I shut the door behind me, as Michonne situates herself in the middle of the bed, and holds the blanket up for me to join her. Without any hesitation I take my place behind her, easing my body up close to hers, and swaddling her in my arms. 

Familiar. Yeah this is familiar. This is reminiscent of so many nights we’ve spent like this. The world outside washed anew by the rain. My girl, my best friend by my side. Nostalgia floods my brain, a highlight reel of every moment that I’ve had with her like this. She backs up closer to me, locking her hands with mine, and I can’t help but to inhale a whiff of her, the cottony tufts of her locs, and their lavender fragrance, brushing against my face. Throwing my leg over hers, I secure her within my embrace as I feel her sag the rounded curve of her behind into my groin, then stiffen with the banging of the thunder outside. 

“The storms just…ya know.”

“I do. It’s ok. You’re safe with me.”

“It doesn’t storm like this in LA.”

“But you can’t get this in LA either.” I answer, squeezing her tighter, hoping that the stability she feels in my loving hold gives her security. Comfort.

Michonne’s grazing her fingers over my forearms, tickling at the hair. The sensation is so familiar. Torturous in its intimacy. If I close my eyes, it’s like nothing has ever changed. Circumstance has never tried to break apart what the universe has bonded together. We’re kids again, hiding from the turmoil of life. We’re new friends, basking in the breaching of new romantic territory. We’re lovers, finding respite in each other’s embrace. How did I ever survive without this? I didn’t. I subsisted on the smallest parts, the crumbs of a lifetime of memories. The piece of her that lives in our children’s smiles. In the pictures that captured our life’s moments. Together and apart.

The stroke of her hand lulls the both of us as she begins doing that breathing thing, the meditative chant accompanying the in and out. I do it with her. Attempt to anyway. I had a few beers earlier. She had two glasses of wine with dinner. It makes my brain somewhat foggy, my tongue lazy in its dull pronunciation of the sounds. But, neither her drinking or mine are a match for her nervous disarray from the warring in the clouds, or my anxiousness from her allowing this moment of desired closeness. 

Breaking through the stillness, her voice, its succinct huskiness twinkles back to life on the end of her last whispered mantra. “The dollhouse you and the boys are making is beautiful. Judy Bear is gonna love it.”

“Thank you. She’s such a diva, she doesn’t want to help, but she’s got tons of demands on what she wants in her dollhouse. She even wants us to build a doghouse for Lily.”

“Lily is getting up there in age. She could probably use her own house away from the kids’ noise.”

“You can send for her. She can be here with the kids ya know.”

“Thanks. Lily’s like Judith though, she’s a California girl. Don’t know how she would take to the heat in Georgia.”

“Judith is only a California girl half the time.” I correct, for some reason the title makes me feel some kind of way. Discounts her time spent here. With me.

“You’re right. She eats like a southern girl. Putting away two whole chicken legs, and corn on the cob. I was impressed you got her to eat her green beans without a fight.”

“She’s competitive like her mama. She’s always just trying to keep up with the boys. If they eat ‘em, she’s gonna eat ‘em too. Remind you of anyone?”

“Nope. If I recall you were all trying to keep up with me. Not the other way around.”

“I think you recall wrong, but I’ll let it slide. You know I always got your back.”

“Yeah… you used to.”

“I still do.”

“Well… that’s not really your place anymore though.” Michonne snarks, sarcasm drenching her tone, and I can tell she’s preparing for a little fight. She’s upset with me. It’s the underlying subtext of things with us. I know that. I won’t shrink away from it anymore. It’s time to put it all out there.

Pushing back at her declaration, I don’t let either of us off the hook. “Isn’t it?”

Kissing her tongue against her teeth in that way that reminds me of her mother, she shakes her head. “No. It’s not.” She flatly denies.

“Michonne, come on. You’re in my bed, in my arms. You chose to do like you always do when it thunderstorms. You came to me. And you let me be there for you. That’s what we do. That’s who we are. Rick and Michonne is not something we think about or plan…it’s…what we do, who we are. It’s the life we have shared and created together, and can have again. It’s everything. You’re angry with me, and I get that. I accept that cause you think I actually chose something over you. But, sweetheart, the truth is that I chose you over everything. And if you think I got out of that choice in one piece, then you’re wrong.”

“This is why I keep distance between us, Rick. It’s too hard.”

“Nah, it’s easy.” Molding my chest to her back, I drop my chin to her shoulder. “Being apart, that’s what’s hard. We’ve lost so much, Michonne, don’t you think it’s time we stop sacrificing and punishing ourselves, and just…win a little?”

On a heavy sigh, Michonne tilts her head to the side a little, just enough for me to see her profile, the frown knitting her brows together. “It’s not that easy, Rick. You know that. It’s not fair to Ezekiel. Or to…Lori. People other than us can get hurt. We’ve caused enough damage already.”

“You know as well as I do that they are both just distractions. We’ve hurt each other enough, Michonne. We’re not over. It’s time for us to be selfish, and to heal. I’m sorry for not being able to do that sooner. I can’t let you go again. I’m not that strong.”

At that I can’t find more words. They don’t come. There is so much weighing heavy on my heart for this woman, I want to gift her every single word. She deserves that. And more. Apologies, pleas, even my own simmering anger, let her see the fight I have left in me… But, for some reason my senses are so interconnected to the simplicity of her presence, of her in my arms, that any further attempts to vocalize my feelings are stalled out. What’s left is what I can communicate with my body, with my actions. 

As though she can anticipate that the time for words is over, Michonne turns to face me, stilling me with her stare. Those eyes, warm, imbued with the emotional memory of recognition. A recognition of who we are to each other. Not simply friends. More than lovers. Husband and wife is insufficient. The essence of my very being is wrapped up in her, and her with me. Our souls continuing their infinite dance.

Even the moon’s glow that should shine brightly through my bedroom windows is muted by the caul of clouds, and yet, I can see her. The tears that shine, an incandescent brightness in every pinched blink. The pain that pulls at her features, warring against something else that’s pushing against that negativity. Something that wants to escape the anxiety of uncertainty, and to cling the possibility of the reconciliation I’m offering her. 

Framing my face with her hands, Michonne’s gaze sweeps over me, searching for a safe place for her heart, a port in a tumultuous storm. “I want to believe in you, Rick.”

God help me, that’s all I need to hear. Instantly I can feel the heat building in my groin and my gut. My cock swelling, growing impossibly hard as she pulls me in to her and kisses me. The sweet softness of her mouth opens for me and it’s just that tiny hint of her that spurs me on, pushes me to action. Ravenous, I sweep my tongue into her mouth, nip and suckle at those lips that belong to me. 

Gently pushing her over to her back, my hips nudging her willing thighs wider, I settle in between her legs. Sucking at the sensitive flesh of her neck, her collarbone, her large breasts, I realize that my girl is softer than I remember her, curvier, and I’m eager to discover the wonders of this Michonne. This woman whose body has given me so much pleasure, housed a kindred spirit, welcomed and nurtured my children. Worshipfully, I bow my head, and with two brimming handfuls of her fat ass in my palm, I begin a journey to reclaim my right to explore her, pleasure her. 

Soft mewls of pleasure emit from her sexy lips with each panted breath. Michonne’s fingers thread themselves in my hair, directing me with gentle pressure to continue my measured focus on her dark nipples, clearly delighted at the licks and bites I give them with the edge of my teeth. Pebbling, turgid and firm against my lips and tongue, her nipples, her succulent breasts trap me, enfold me in the scent of her sweat, infused with her innate sweetness as my little Georgia peach. I bury my face between them, abrading their softness with the scratch of my beard. I remember how much she loves that, the scrape bringing her senses alive.   
And she doesn’t disappoint. Her immediate reaction is to lift her pelvis into mine, seeking what she wants. What I know my sweetheart craves. Offering to give me back what’s mine.

“Rick, baby…”

“Mmhmm…”

Wiggling against me, hungry for something more, her hand frees itself of my hair and digs down into the front of my pajama pants. Wrapping around my thickness, the grip of her hand is exquisite torture. The most delicious of sensations tingles from the tip of my cock in thick pearly drops, dripping into her hand as she pumps it, twisting from tip to base against the sticky lubrication to nearly kill me with pleasure. 

Working me with one hand, the fingers of her other lift my face back to hers, the nails scraping against my cheek, then playing against my kiss swollen lips. Biting my chin, then my cheek, she huskily whispers over my lips. “I want you to fuck me, Rick. Please…”

Her request strikes a cord within me, creates a rush of something powerful, carnal. Pecking and licking at the swell of her heart shaped lips, I smile in recognition. “I intend to.” I huff out, inching my hips away from the circle of her hand, needy for the depths of her in a way so visceral it’s bordering on painful. 

Urgency is apparent in my movements. My pants an inconvenience that won’t stop me. There’s no time to remove her panties. Instead I inch the soaking wet seat of them aside with my fingers, then ease my middle finger past the puffy lips and sink it down into her. A strangled gasp inches from her mouth. I steal that gasps for myself, kissing at the corner of her mouth. 

“You’re already so fucking wet. That for me?”

Shakily nodding her head, I can feel her pushing her pussy down onto my hand, her greedy little pussy begging for more. Stirring my finger in a circle, I’m loosening my wife up for me, just a little. Not too much. Just enough to get her on the precipice of what she wants, a little tease of anticipation added with the back and forth grind of my thumb over her swollen clit. 

Growing louder with every swipe of my thumb, Michonne’s cries join the wet sound of my hand between her thighs, and as I feel the tension tighten in her pussy around my finger, I stop. I don’t want her to come yet. I want her pleasure at its peak. I want her as high as she can go. I need her to quiet down though before she wakes the kids.

Dragging my hand from between her thighs, dripping with her honey, I push my fingers into her mouth, where she proceeds to lick them clean, groaning at the taste of herself. Jealous, I steal my hand back and have a taste for myself. 

“Sweetheart, you are the tastiest peach.” I proclaim. And it’s the truth. If I could bottle and sell what this woman has, I would be a millionaire. But I’m greedy and jealous, and all I can think as I grip my dick and rub it against her flowery petals, is that I will kill another man if they even think of touching her again. It’s not a fleeting thought. It’s not new to me. It’s a dark, familiar feeling that has ridden me every day that we’ve been apart. 

It’s this darkness that pushes me to grab a handful of her voluminous locs in my fist, tilting her head back, baring her throat to me. Latching my mouth to her pulse, I push her left thigh high with my other hand, raising her pussy, and allow myself to fall. Deep. Deeper still, my wife’s most intimate place sucks me down into her, and I close my eyes against the feeling to instantly nut. She’s simply too much. Too tight. Too wet. To fucking soft, and delicious, and… 

“Michonne, whew… gotdamn! Mmm…”

Pressed tightly together, seamless in our connection at every juncture, sweat gathers on my brow, between the kiss of our bellies, her breasts cozied to my chest, as I thrust into her. Measured and smooth at first, giving her a chance to get used to me again. To adjust, to accept every inch. Cause that’s what I need. I need her to envelope all of me. To allow me to once again touch all of her. Eventually though, with her hands on my ass, her pleas urging me to go harder, faster, I release my restraint, and my need to gently make love to my wife. To connect with her. That’s not what she wants, nor is it what she needs. 

My sweetheart wants me to fuck her. The filthiest words erupt from her sexy mouth as she squeezes me with the restrictive walls of her drenched pussy, pulsing rhythmically against every upward plunge I give her. 

“Put your name on this pussy, Rick! Harder! Harder!” she commands, as one hand inches in a series of walking tickles up my back, over my shoulders, and into my hair. Tingles and goosebumps erupt over my skin at her touch, her wrapping her silky legs tighter around my waist, her demands. The way she’s grinding up, meeting every pounded thrust of my hips. “God yes! That dick feels so good! So good!” 

Kissing her I swallow each and every one of her words, her pleas, her screams. They belong to me. I did that to her. I gave her the orgasm that’s traveling the course of her limbs, strangling her vocal cords in ecstasy. Drowning my dick and balls with cum.

Removing her legs from my waist, I raise them even higher. Push them to her chest, and find the punishing pace that slaps my balls against her ass in a wave of hard bangs. Michonne is so wet, so sticky, I can see the white essence of her pleasure, pearly against the chocolate of the bareness of her pretty pussy lips, and all over my groin, my thrusting cock, and my pubic hair slick against my skin. 

“I could stay inside of you all night, sweetheart. You feel so fucking good, Michonne… My pussy feels so good…” 

“Ah, ah, ah!” I can’t even think straight enough to remind her to try and be quieter. It wouldn’t even matter. My own groans and grunts are elevated, ripping through the air on a song whose harmony we have not forgotten.

Lowering on her again, the back of her thighs against my chest, I keep my hand between us, and use my fingers to add pressure to her clit, along with the grind of my pelvic bone. A series of licks to her breasts, accompanied by a punishing little stinging slap from my hand to her nub, and it’s the choking strangle of her pussy clamping down on me with that syncopated pulse that does me in. That pulls from my tightening balls every ounce of cum I can muster. The best I can do is use my forearm to try and keep all of my weight off of her, but other than that, I have little control of my faculties. Michonne owns me, and every spurt of my milky cum, bathing her womb, as she winds her hips and cums with me, secures her hold over me even more. 

“Uhhh…grrrr…oooohh…fuuuuuck!”

Fireworks blast off behind my eyelids. My release like the tiniest of deaths, sending my spirit seeking hers, lavishing in our rekindled connection. Sex is always like this with Michonne. As emotional an experience as it is a physical one. As sexy as it is spiritual. 

“You ok? Rick?”

“Hm?”

“You ok?” skittering her fingers across my face, my eyelids, my lips. She takes stock of me, measuring my response to her touch. “You still alive in there?” she teases as I try to relieve some of the pressure from my body on top of hers, sliding my cock from her, and easing her legs down to the bed. 

Chuckling at myself, I lean over to my side, and pull her leg over my hip, wanting to maintain our connection. “I am now. You know you how it is with us.”

“I do.” She giggles, then raises herself to mount my hips. Placing her chest flat to mine, she rests her chin on her folded hands. “Can I tell you something, Rick? Be honest?”

Tiredly wiping the sweat from my face, I give her my full attention. “Of course.” Yeah she can, but I won’t lie and say the specter of whatever she wants to be honest about grips my heart in a fearful grasp. 

“I don’t know what this all means for us. I don’t.”

“Ok…”

“But I know I still love you. Being here with you and kids today, and your family-”

“Our family.” I interrupt, popping a kiss to her lips.

Rolling her eyes, she smiles, but as her thoughts continue to race it falls again. “I know I hated seeing her. I hate you for creating this space between us. Like, to allow her to be there, ya know. In your life again. I don’t have the right to be jealous.” Hiding herself behind her hand for a second she halts her words. “And I hate myself for being weak and accepting your choices. Allowing this to happen to our family. I was… I am so angry with you. I thought I was better than that. I’m not. Am I?”

“Better than anger? Than jealousy?”

“Yes!”

“Sweetheart, haven’t you earned the right to both of those things? Don’t hate yourself. I hated seeing him with you. I’m angry. I’m jealous.”

Incredulous at my charge of anger, as though that’s all I’ve said, Michonne’s eyebrows raise high on her forehead in question. “You’re angry with me?”

“Yeah. Yes, I’m angry with you. Probably for the same reasons you’re angry with me. I was forced to make an impossible decision, and you knew that. You know that you are the most important person in the world to me. You always have been, you always will be. But, I had a difficult choice to make. A choice about dreams, and destiny, and survival. It wasn’t easy.”

“But you didn’t ask me. You just did something. You unilaterally decided like my opinion didn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters! But, I wasn’t going to let you make a wrong choice. You can’t be the Famous Michonne Grimes if you’re here, and not there. You would have eventually blamed me, you do now. But at least now you’re a famous, rich woman, who has everything she ever wanted. I can take the blame for that.”

“I don’t have you though, Rick. That’s all I ever really wanted. Just you.” Michonne places her lips to my chest, caressing the damp, feverish skin, imbued with hints of her, right above my heart. “Why do you think all those years ago, that I chose you to be my first?”

“Cause that jackass Mike fucked up.”

“Nope. Cause you were who I always really wanted. I could have called Sasha to come pick me up that night. But I called you because it was the first time it ever occurred to me that I could really have you.”

“Really? You never told me that before.”

Shrugging she scoffs, “I’m telling you now. I want you to know that I didn’t separate our family just because it was easy or I was hurt, I was devastated not being with you. Nothing with my comic books or any of that was the same without you. So yeah, I’m angry too.”

“That’s fair. Maybe we both could have done some things differently, but every choice has given us something special. Our children. Your career. My mother’s health. Sustainable family businesses.”

“Lori. Ezekiel.”

“I don’t want to talk about either of them.”

“Rick, I want to be free of the anger and the sadness. Don’t you want to move on?”

“You want to move on with him?”

“I think I did. I don’t know.” She confesses as though this is a shameful secret. The hardest hitting of the many she’s divulged tonight.

Her truthfulness wounds me to an extent, but I can’t fault where she’s coming from. We did this to each other. “Come here, Mrs. Grimes.” Pulling her back up to me, I proceed to quiet my wife’s confessions for one evening, and kiss her lips. Reseal our fates under the guise of renewed hopefulness that we can figure this out together, or at least give it one last try.

XXXX

“And then after Dre, here come Judy, and we all swept in my bed cause we’re all a-scared of the storm.” Carl grumbles around a mouthful of pancakes. 

“Your mama used to always be scared of thunderstorms too, ain’t that right, Rick? Michonne always hated the thunder something awful. Almost turn my favorite girl inside out.” Granddad cackles.

“Am I you favwite too, Gwandpop?” Judith asks, dropping her head onto her upturned hand and fixing my grandfather in her sights with her question, seated between my father and my grandfather at the kitchen table.

Smoothing down her wild curls, he grins at her, his eyes squinting behind his thick glasses. “Of course you are, jelly bean. Your mama just got here first is all.”

“Wonder how Michonne made out last night. That was a hell of a storm. She alright, Rick?” My father questions, raising his eyes from the iPad he’s using to read the news. “Thought I heard some noise last night.”

Across the table from my father, seated to my left, my mother smarts at his knowing comment. “You were snoring so loud, Richard, you probably just heard yourself.”

“I heard screaming! All night long we hear screaming.” Andre adds after a gulp of orange juice, agreeing with my father on the noise level in the house. “Everybody a-scared of the storm I guess.” 

“Maybe it was just some of the animals in the barn?” My mother adds, offering up an excuse for the sounds, that really boil down to their mother and I enjoying our time with each other. They’ve never heard that before.

“Never heard it before when it storms.” Carl asserts, stabbing at his pancakes and shoveling bigger pieces than he should into his mouth.

Covering my grin with my hand, and clearing my throat, wanting to put the issue to bed, I try to close out the conversation “Gran is probably right about it just being the animals. Ok?”

“What was the animals?” Michonne asks, entering the kitchen, and stopping to kiss each of the kids on the tops of their heads. Without an empty chair for her to sit in, she stands to my side, and steals a strip of bacon from my plate. 

“The caterwauling last night. Sounded like a wild polecat maybe?” Granddad cackles again, his white eyebrows wiggling over the frames of his glasses.

Michonne dismisses his suggestion and shrugs it off. “I didn’t hear anything other than that awful storm.”

“Hey, you want my seat? You wanna eat? I can fix you a plate.” I ask her, raising my head to her with a smile, ready to rise at her command. Her locs are pulled back into a ponytail, face scrubbed clean, and she’s wearing her jeans from yesterday with one of my t-shirts tied around her frame in the back. I’m struck by how beautiful she looks despite the fact that I barely let her sleep last night. I couldn’t get enough of her. And in between romps, we talked, as much as we could really, some things still too sore for us to hash out in one night. The divorce papers. Where things stand with me still being here. But at least I realized something, and I hope she did too, we may have been separated for awhile, estranged, but our love is still alive. 

Plopping down on my lap, and surveying the gamut of wide eyed stares of shock from the kids, smirks from my dad and grandfather, and a loving smile from my mother, Michonne makes herself comfortable and takes a sip of my coffee, then a bite of my pancakes. “I’ll just eat off of your plate. I missed your cooking.”


	9. Chapter 9 - Michonne

Chapter 9 – Michonne

“I’m flying out Tuesday evening. That way I can pickup Lily, get her groomed. Check on my house, and then drive down to San Diego on Thursday night.”

“I should fly out when you do then.”

“You can. Or you can fly on the studio’s dime with Anthony and everyone else on Thursday afternoon.”

“I might do that instead.” Sasha mumbles, on a final slurp of her iced coffee, sucking on the straw in that annoying way she has of trying to get the last drop of a beverage that is long gone.

Putting some finishing touches on some notes for the director of the episode we start shooting today, an episode that I actually wrote, I scribble a few comments in the margins, then give my attention fully to Sasha. The airy quality of her voice makes me wonder if she’s paying attention, or if her thoughts are somewhere else. Lifting my head to wander over to where she’s seated beside me, I confirm that her shaded focus is elsewhere, partially, if not fully captivated by something else. Someone else. Anthony.

Glancing at Anthony, then back to Sasha, I narrow my gaze on her, wondering at what’s going on. “What does Bob think? He coming to San Diego with you?”

Twisting her lips as though the thought of my question makes her angry, she huffs out in a terse clip, dragging the o sound out, “No.”

“Oh.” Caught a little off guard by the tenor of her response, I fully close up my script, and shut my laptop. I need to figure out what is going on with my friend. Watching Sasha nibble at her bottom lip, deep in thought, her gaze is shielded by her sunglasses, from my prying eyes, but still seemingly fixed on where Anthony stands, his skin turning a rosy hue as he’s apparently oblivious to the scorch of the morning sun. Under the punishing heat and haze of the Georgia day, Sasha and I are not as interested in the sweltering mugginess and are taking a break from shooting under the protection of one of the base camp tents setup near where we are on location at the prison fence. The set is actually an old prison that is no longer in use, and its somewhat worn down condition is perfect for capturing its function as an eerie but safe refuge for our characters, away from the scourge of the zombies roaming outside of its walls and fence. 

The scene that we are shooting this morning is one that Anthony, Sasha, and I have gone over a few times. When I wrote it in the comic, I only saw Randy and Misha as adversaries turned begrudgingly, respected colleagues, friends. Misha is the warrior yen, to Randy’s yang. In my mind he doesn’t trust her, and she doesn’t trust him, but it’s because they are so similar that they eventually gain a familial ally in each other. But in discussing it from the varying perspectives of both of my lead actors, I can see now that there is some subtle undercurrent to what is actually written, both in the comic and in the episode. The ease of their banter. The way they instinctually found reliance on each other. Misha’s casual function as the matriarch of Randy’s little family, his kids clinging to her in a maternal way without her trying, nor without Randy asking. The way that even in the midst of Randy’s manic madness and infatuation with another woman, his frantic over reach and distrust of a newfound community that offered sanctuary, Misha still declared with what Sasha knowingly deemed, a developed reserve of trust and love, that she was still with him.

Through ups and downs, as well as side tracked romantic missteps for both of them, Misha was still with him, and Randy still looks to her for guidance. Was this a symbolic representation of Rick and I? Despite our own missteps, I am still with him. Perhaps I didn’t realize it then, but god…I know that now. I see that now.

I suppose my writing made plain, what my heart wanted to conceal, which is that the friendship between Randy and Misha is a friendship that grows past deep respect, goes further than admiration of a fellow warrior, and roots itself in the passionate romantic love of a man and a woman under the direst of circumstances. 

As Anthony so eloquently pointed out in his posh British accent, everything must live in their eyes in that first moment at the fence in order for the viewer to get it. To foreshadow the destiny of these two. Sasha agreed, noting with a prescient glimmer in her eyes, bolstered by a long history of witnessing the back and forth of Rick and I, that for anyone paying attention, they will see that Randy and Misha’s first meeting is the cornerstone of a ship that is intended to sail. 

Using a term that I have only just become aware of in my time over the last five years, frequenting the comic conventions in San Diego, and New York, I completely understand what she means. Many times while signing autographed copies of my graphic novel, I have had fans ask me what’s really going on with Randy and Misha. And if my true endgame isn’t to have Misha with Ezra, or as some dubbed them, Mezra, but instead for her and Randy to be together? Because how is it possible that they wouldn’t? I clearly recall one young black woman, the only female in a sea of white male, fan boy faces, approaching the mic at a recent, small scale convention in Chicago, question me as to why it seems that I’m ignoring my own character development and foreshadowing, by not killing off Ezra, and having Misha realize that she is in love with Randy? Why wouldn’t I support the Risha ship that I unwittingly helmed all on my own?

At the time I was totally caught off guard by the question, and fully confused by the charge that I had somehow been complicit in sowing the seeds of a relationship that I was explicitly not intending to create. But life is stranger than fiction, and as I consider my activities spent with Rick recently, I’m ready and willing to kick myself for not taking a moment to be transparent and honest with myself. I had written my own life into my story, and if the fans, Anthony who is the unofficial captain of the SS Risha, and Sasha are to be believed, laid bare the romantic future for not only Randy and Misha, but internally I recognized I had possibly done so for Rick and Michonne as well. 

“I’m trying to talk Rick into coming. Maybe it would be nice if we could get the old gang together for some bowling? Rick and me, you and Bob?”

Dismissing my suggestion by not even bothering to address it, Sasha responds, “I’ll just fly down with Anthony and everyone else. Rick should go with you. Have a little mommy-daddy vacay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll hang with the crew. You know Anthony is very funny, smart. He’s good company.”

“How do you know that?”

“We’ve spent a lot of time together on set. Having lunch. He’s a nice guy.”

“He is nice. I like him. He’s a very good actor isn’t he? Very dedicated. Methodical. Completely embodies the role of Rick. I mean Randy. Randy.”

“Mmhm.” Sasha gives me a quick look, peeking at me from the corner of her sunglasses with just a tiny turn of her head. “Very passionate.”

Quirking my eyebrow at her use of the word passionate, I give her a brief glance back from the side of my own eyes, then cut my gaze back out towards where Anthony is now speaking to one of the other actors, a scruffy ex-model named Nathan who plays his sidekick of sorts, Daniel. 

“Well, if Rick doesn’t come-”

“He’ll come. And it will be good for both of you. Enjoy every moment you can with your husband, Chonne.”

“Thanks.” I sigh, an inch of whimsy injected in my voice from hearing Sasha refer to Rick as my husband. He is, I concur to myself, feeling a giddy chill tickle through my body at the thought of him. Rick. My husband. It has been too long since I have thought of him in that way. I relish it. “It feels weird, being together like this again, but also like everything has just…fallen into place. Pretty much been spending every night together.”

Pointing her index finger knowingly my way, she wags it, “I knew something major was up when you weren’t coming out for karaoke, or bar hopping with everyone else after work. Had to be about some dick, cause the Michonne I know loves karaoke and drinking.”

Scrunching my face at being called out, I admit on a squeal, “It was. Some dick. My husband’s to be precise.”

Swatting at me playfully, Sasha laughs. “I knew it!”

Grinning to myself, I squeeze my thighs, smarting at the tingle in my womanhood at the very thought of Rick, and what he’s been doing to me over the last eight weeks. Sasha is right when she says it’s major. It is. Spending the day at the farm with Rick and the kids, and his family, our family, ended up meaning so much more than I could have ever thought. 

Afraid to really express how excited I am about this positive trajectory my marriage is on, not wanting to count my eggs before they hatch, I hold my hands out in a stopping motion, palms flat, “But, we’re taking it slow, though. Right now it’s just a lot of spending time with each other, and the kids, getting to know each other again. It’s been a long time since we’ve been allowed to be together like this. There is so much about the nearness of him that I missed. His smell. His touch. Those eyes. Those lips. Hell even his snoring. And seeing him everyday with the kids is a huge deal. They just thrive so much, and seem to be soaking up every little moment with the both of us with them. I don’t know, Sash, it’s like someone turned on a light and now we can see each other, and our family more clearly, and it shows me what we’ve missed by me punishing him, and him making choices on his own. We did a lot of damage to each other.” I pause for a moment, shaking my head as though coming out of a fog, freeing myself of my own disillusionment at my self-created circumstances. Allowing the heft of my admission to weigh on my shoulders, to properly communicate to my body the gravity of what we’ve selfishly and unwittingly done, and who we’ve done it to. “To our kids. Put his family, and mine in the middle. Our friends. It was unfair to everyone.”

“It’s funny how we hurt the ones we love most of all. It’s so easy because of the closeness, but it’s so hurtful for the same reason.” Sasha adds, pain, something dark and sad suddenly riding the tone of her softly spoken words. 

“Sasha, hey girl, you ok?”

Thickly swallowing, only a weak cloud of sound emits as she forms a single word on her lips. “Bob.”

“Bob what?”

Fingers trembling, Sasha sniffs and raises them to catch the wetness that streams from behind her darkened sunglasses to stain her cheeks. “He’s uh…he’s drinking again. Won’t get treatment this time though. Thinks he doesn’t need it to manage. So…I just…I think I’m done this time. I am. I’m done.” The finality in those last two words appears to break her, and her body that was once at attention, focused on the interplay of crewmembers and actors on the set, is now weakly slumped against the back of her chair.

Eyes wide, I can barely believe what I’m hearing. Bob, one of the kindest, sweetest guys I know, has fallen again. Sucked back into the abyss of an addiction that he has valiantly been fighting for years. Dragging his wife, my sister and best friend, with him. Instantly I feel a wretched sickness in my stomach at how I’ve been espousing the wonders of my own rediscovered marriage, while Sasha suffers under the burden of her own crumbling one. “Oh Sasha, honey, I’m so sorry. You’re letting me just go on and on about Rick and me. I’m so sorry!”

Gripping the hand I’ve offered to her in solidarity, Sasha delivers a small twisted smile to her lips. One that lifts her cheeks, and travels to the corners of her eyes. A genuine response to my apology. “Don’t be sorry. You guys deserve this win. It’s a hard fought one. None of this has come easy for you guys, or your kids. This time with Bob is just worse though you know. We’ve been fighting about me not wanting to have kids yet, and me being here for so long. When I told him I was going to come home for a little bit, since I had already shot my stuff for the last episode and I was off for a few days, he was all jittery about it. Talking about he was on call so he might not have a lot of time to spend with me. So you know what I did? I called myself surprising him and made a phone call to the hospital administration office to check his schedule and see if I could get some things moved around. They told me he isn’t on the schedule, hasn’t been for a month since he’d been placed on administrative leave while they reviewed the charges against him, and they thought I was aware. Can you believe that shit, Michonne?”

“Charges, what charges?” I ask, incredulous at how this was unfolding, but also nervous for what it seemed to be foreshadowing for my old friend Bob, his career, and his marriage.

“Girl, when I finally got him on the phone, his drunk ass told me a patient complained that he appeared inebriated when he saw him. Stuttering, clumsy. Had the nerve to scoff and tell me one beer at lunch doesn’t make him drunk anymore.” Waving her hand in disgusted dismissal, Sasha rolls her neck, and cocks her head back in that way that any woman who’s had enough of the BS automatically does. “They aren’t gonna give this fool his job back, Michonne. Not this time. And he’s so caught up in his addiction, I don’t think he even cares anymore.”

Sadly, all I can do is shake my head. I can’t seem to believe what I’m hearing. How did they get here? “Wow. I am at a loss for words, Sasha, I really am.”

“Ain’t enough words for this bullshit. I’m done this time, Michonne. I am. I’ve made every effort to support him through his problems because when he went to rehab the last time, they said this is a family effort. We have to both dedicate ourselves to a life of sobriety and wellness. And you know I was there with him. Faithfully living the steps with him. I love my husband.” Sasha’s voice breaks over the last few words, and I can tell that even speaking the words is wrenching every inch of fight out of her. “But he’s not even trying anymore, and he wonders why I don’t want a kid with him right now. How could I bring a baby into this? He blames me and my career, but hell I blame him and his drinking!”

Speechless, everything said that can be said, Sasha and I allow ourselves to fall into the muggy heat of the day, sweltering with our silence. The bluntness of reality impeding on this moment. 

Lifting her sunglasses to the top of her head, resting them over the neat cornrows that tame her voluminous hair which will don the famous dreadlock wig during shooting, Sasha drops her face into her upturned hands, her weak voice barely kisses the air from where it’s muffled against her palms. “I’m tired, and angry, and sad, and hurt, Michonne. It’s not fair to compare, but, Rick would never have done something like this to you. You’re so fortunate to have him. Really you are.” Turning in her chair to face me, I can see the gathering of tears pooling in her eyes, blinking a watery pathway of canals across her face. Sniffing back her tears, she continues, “Did you know that Rick used to call me all the time to check on you? Especially after Judith was born, when you stopped speaking to him. He was literally texting and calling, and asking me about you and the kids nearly every other day. On top of him coming to LA once a month. That man was determined to be close to you and his family in any way that he could. His way of fighting for you. He didn’t want you to know, so you wouldn’t be angry with me for telling him how you were, but he didn’t care about time, or geography, or even your stubborn ass getting in the way. He only cared about you and his children.”

“What?” I ask the question, but every fiber of my being knows that what she’s saying is true. I’ve heard the same from Rick’s mother, who commented something similar while I helped her fix dinner that first night I was back at the farm.

Two months ago…

“Thank you for braiding my hair back for me, and for helping me out in here, honey. I know cooking isn’t really your thing.”

“I’m happy to do it, Ms. Dana.”

“You can still call me mom, Michonne. I’m still your mother in law aren’t I?”

Nodding, more to myself than to her, I slight grimace ticks at my lips at being called out, “Yes. You are. Things are so different now though.”

“Are they?” she asks over her shoulder as she turns to peer over at where I stand at the island peeling potatoes.

At her question I have to pause, the knife in my hand, now hanging in the air. During moments like these, I have to wonder at what Dana understands about the state of things. Everyone, from my parents, to Rick and his father, have explained to me that Dana’s ability to clearly recall certain events in the past, and her understanding of things occurring in the present is somewhat foggy at times. Impeded by the trauma of flooding her body with toxic chemicals to rid it of the cancer. These changes in her are not imagined, and they may not be reversible. As my father noted, it is often the bargain of remission. You barter away a cancer diagnosis, exchanging it for remission, and cognitive issues that you may never recover from. 

My eyes drop from hers, and immediately Dana’s attention is back focused in a tight squint behind her glasses as she’s reading the recipe that Rick’s grandmother had written down for her famous peach crumble. It’s even better than her pies and cobblers, and I hope it’s done before it gets too late so I can have some. 

Haltingly, unsure of how to approach this conversation, I offer a brief response. “They are.”

“Not really. You’re still a part of this family. My daughter. My son’s wife. My grandchildren’s mother.”

“That’s…true I guess.”

Turning away from the counter and the ingredients she has lined up before her, she removes her reading glasses, allowing them to rest on their pearl chain against her newly reconstructed breasts. Tilting her head a bit in that way that is so reminiscent of Rick, she offers me a kind smile, her lips curving with the raise of her cheeks, reaching the lines angling from her eyes. “I always wanted a daughter. Richard too. After Jeff, we tried briefly for a girl, it just never happened, and we gave up on that. Some things aren’t meant for you.” Looking away towards the bay window in the eating area, as though she might catch a glimpse of her husband through it’s panes, her smile weakens, the smallest amount though, so little you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t really looking. Approaching where I stand at the island, she reaches out for my hand, placing her own over mine. “Then we moved next door to the spunkiest, sweetest, cutest little girl the world had to offer, and I think the whole Grimes family kind of fell in love with her. My sons included.”

“Sons?” I ask on a little chuckle. Sons?

“Don’t play coy. You know that Jeff adores you. Has been crushing on you forever. Rick almost gave him a black eye once when he saw him ogling you in those little bikinis you used to live in every summer.”

“Jeff was just…being Jeff. Harmless.”

“Yes, he was harmless. But Rick had really put his claim on you from the moment you punched him in his nose. You’ve been my daughter since the days when your mother and I used to go on our girls only shopping trips, have afternoon tea, and all those times I let you play dress up in my things. Comb my hair, polish my nails. Michonne, there is so much that I don’t fully remember. That my mind won’t clearly allow me to grasp anymore. That cuts me deep. Hurts in a way that I can’t describe. But I have nearly perfect recall of you. Of your place in my life. Our lives. The happiness that little five-year-old girl brought to this family.”

Blinking, I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to impede the formidable strength of what Dana is saying. We have always been close. She’s right. When her and my mother became friends, by default that meant me too. There simply weren’t a lot of girls to play with in our neighborhood, and outside of the boys, I spent a great deal of time with my mother. Combing her hair. Playing dress up in her clothes and makeup. And I suppose because my mother had folded Dana into our lives, making her a sister of her own, she was like an extension of my mother. I shared my accomplishments and disappointments with her, as easily as I did with my own mother. My menstruation was met with a full on girls’ weekend celebration in Savannah with not only my mother, but my other mother, Dana, as well. They welcomed me into the sisterhood of womanhood then, did the same when Rick and I married, and when each of the kids came along. I can’t discount the importance of her being there for every one of my life’s milestones. How could I? 

But I suppose I had. Bracing myself against the countertop for support, I thread my arms across my chest, comforting myself against the growing transparency of her words as I begin to realize exactly where this conversation is heading. I squirm under the light of the truth. 

“That little girl, became a woman. The woman who matched my son’s soul. Who completed him in a way that none of us could have expected. And still brings happiness, and joy to this family. Who we all love and adore. Who we all missed terribly, and regret any role we may have played in the separation of her family. Michonne, you’re still my daughter, and I love you. And more important than any of that…I am truly sorry.”

“Mom-”

“Wait, please let me say this.” Dana approaches me, stopping only once she stands directly in front of me, her kind face tilted up slightly towards mine. Up close, it’s easier to bear witness to the toll that her illness took on her diminutive form. How her skin has aged, seemingly thin, papery, her cheeks still somehow gaunt, less full than how I remember. Hair that was once full and dark, glossy, and unimaginably thick, had now grown out in a nearly shocking flare of white. The edges that framed her round face bore the signs of traction alopecia from years of donning wigs, a mask to cover what chemo had stolen from her. 

Regardless of the ravages of her illness, her green eyes still showcased the honest kindness that has always lived there. Reaching out to unwind my stiff arms, opening me to receive what she’s delivering, Dana leans her tiny form into mine and hugs me with every ounce of love in her. 

“I’m sorry, Chonnie. For what my illness took from you too. The choices it forced on you, and Rick. I’m sorry.”

Dana has always been a hugger. A woman who was never afraid to tell you like it is, but just as quickly as she would scold you with her words, she would soothe you with the warmth of her hugs just the same. It’s this that finally unhinges me, demolishes my dam of restraint, and pushes forward the tears that I attempted to withhold from her. Hasn’t she already suffered enough? Yes, she has. Life has wrung from her almost everything, and in my heart there were zero apologies needed. 

“Mom, you don’t have to be sorry. You were the one who got sick, you’re the victim here, not me. Don’t apologize to me. Please. If anything I’m sorry for not spending more time here with you while you were sick and then recovering. I just…couldn’t.”

Leaning back to stare me in the face, a surprise shocks her eyes, stiffens her lips in a grin that I almost don’t recognize as joyful. 

“I’m no victim, Chonnie, and neither are you. Not in the least. You’re a thriver. Like me! Look at what you have done for yourself.” Framing my face with her hands, she pulls me down towards her, and kisses my forehead. “Your talent has taken you very far, little girl, to the top. Regardless of the stumbles in your marriage, you kept going. And you thrived. Like me!”

“Like you?”

“Like me! Look at me! I’m here. I’m alive. It’s hard for me to remember every day, but I still have the cards, and letters with pictures and doodles from my Chonnie. I know there were flowers that appeared weekly with a loving note, encouraging me to fight, signed M.G. with the little flower flourish you sign your name with. We made it through a very difficult time, both of us did. Did we suffer? Yes. But we are here on the other side of that suffering. I think that’s why you’re here today with your husband and kids, and the rest of your family.”

“I’m here to help pick peaches.”

“If only it were that simple. Love is more complicated than that, Chonnie. You know that.”

“I’m not sure what you mean. I love my family, it’s why I’m here. I made choices that hurt you all too. I realize that. I want to mend that fence. But…that’s it.” I stubbornly assert, unwillingly to allow her words to fully touch me. To sink in. Though god knows I have been complicit in my own pain over the years, forcing a wedge between Rick and I more than once over the years. How could I even presume to surmount that with one afternoon of peach picking?

“Perhaps. Maybe you’re here with your family for the same reason that has Rick racking up frequent flyer miles to get to LA once a month? Oh how I wished he wouldn’t return from those trips. Every time I wanted to get a call from him that he was staying with you and the kids. After Judith was born, I told him not to stay here. But debt, medical bills past your eyeballs, higher than you can even count, kept that boy here. Me. What I went through kept him here. The defeated sadness that covered him whenever he looked at me. That kept him here. His grandfather being old. His father being a coward. His brother being too young. All kept him here. I cried every time he walked back through that front door without you or the kids. But you better believe that he was constantly calling your parents and your brother to see how you were, where you were, to find a way to be close to you. He’s got pictures of you and the kids all over his bedroom. In his phone. Proudly tells anyone who will listen about his famous wife. Don’t be fooled by distance, pride, and difficult choices, Chonnie. Rick loves you. And you love him.”

Shrugging, I’m almost stunned into silence, but muster the fewest amount of words I can find to explain away what Dana declared, and I know to be true. “He’s the father of my children.” 

“Rick is as in love with you, as you are with him. It’s that love that brought you here today. To be near him? Close to him? You guys have always been like magnets with each other. Just inexplicably drawn together.”

“I don’t know about that.” Scoffing at her words that hit me squarely in my feelings, I attempt to put my guard back up and re-cross my arms around myself. Dana doesn’t allow it, and holds them stiffly at my side instead. 

“Yes you do. I don’t give a damn about this messiness you and Rick have gotten yourselves into. This isn’t the first time is it? Happened before out there in LA?”

“Ah…”

“I know all about it. Your mother and I try to remain neutral but, you’re a mother now, Chonnie, you know how it is. We always know. Even if we don’t say anything. The back and forth of you and Rick’s is a living breathing thing almost.” She chuckles, though it’s a hollow laugh, bereft of happiness. Laced with just a trace of regret for how we have ebbed and flowed in and out of each other’s lives. 

Sniffling, I rub at my nose with my knuckles, an admittance of my own guilt alive on my lips. “LA was hard for me at first. Finding my way forward with Rick at my back. I didn’t mean to hurt him. But I did.”

“Both of you are guilty of hurting each other over. Him and this thing with Lori, or whatever skank he’s kept time with. So much like his father I suppose. Maybe not?”

“Maybe.”

“You and this guy running around calling himself your boyfriend.” She smirks at me, and shakes her head as though she is disappointed in Rick’s dalliances, and in me for Ezekiel’s very existence. The glare of her green eyes makes me drop my own. The censure in that head shake levels me in shame like I’m a little kid all over again, busted nabbing a handful of cookies from the kitchen. “You and my son are meant to be. That’s it.” Giving me a gentle pat on my cheek, Dana’s smile grows from ear to ear, sprouting from the confidence in her claim. Turning on her heel, she heads back over to the counter where she was preparing to cook. I fall onto the stool in front of the island, settling over a glass of milk and a piece of pie that I had abandoned to begin peeling potatoes. 

“Mom, maybe it’s too late though? For me and Rick? Maybe things are what they are supposed to be this time?”

“It’s never too late to be with the one you love. Rick is never going to let you go anyway. You’re a part of each other. You can’t stay away from each other.” Throwing up her hands as though the very thought of it has worn her out, Dana gives me one last glance over her shoulder, “It’s crazy. That’s why the babies keep coming!”

Present day…

“Rick did that, huh?”

“Yes, Michonne, he did that! At first I was a little annoyed with both of you, and especially him for putting me in the middle of you two. Cause I knew him staying in Georgia was his choice not yours, and well, I thought he deserved the separation you forced on him. The first time, I understood him. But after Judith, nah… I was pissed with him too. But then I could see it, his dedication to you despite it all, ya know. That relentlessness was so much more than love. It was like some sort of obsession almost. And I’m not gonna lie, I started to be a little jealous of it all. Not in a bad way, but in a way that made me want to fight for my own marriage even harder. I wanted Bob to be like Rick and dig deeper for me.”

“Sasha, don’t do that. Don’t compare me and Rick to you and Bob. Our relationship has been plenty painful and messy with all of our bad decisions, and getting in our own way. That’s the part of our story that no one wants to admit exists. Regardless of how deeply we love, we always hurt each other. Me especially…it’s hard to admit that I have hurt Rick, pushed him away, that just like you he has had every right to be upset with me.” Gulping down the boulder of regret that would almost clog and choke my confession, I can feel my fingers nervously twisting in the hem of the tank top I’m wearing, even as my eyes catch the glimmer of the sunlight dancing against my gold wedding band hanging around my neck, and quickly my fingers redirect themselves to move over the smooth metal. “There is a weakness in me that I recognize now. One that blinds me to what I’ve got sometimes. Maybe it’s because…I’m-I’m so used to Rick being the strong one. Being the supportive one, and me not having to. I can mess up and leave and shut him out, and-and he’s always there, and I have taken that for granted. And it’s a shitty thing to do. I don’t want to be that person anymore, Sasha. And I’m not choosing Bob’s side or anything, I’m just saying, sometimes you simply don’t understand when you’re being destructive and hurting the people you love.”

Her hand reaching out to cover over mine at my throat, the grasp of my palm around my ring as urgent as though I’m hanging on to my last lifeline, my final chance with Rick. “Michonne, real talk, Rick may have done something you didn’t agree with, but he did it out of love and respect for you. And you may have reacted differently than I might have. But I don’t blame you, because what you and Rick have taught me is that if you want to be with someone, if it’s mean to be… then it will be. And right now? I can’t even get my fucking husband to stop drinking long enough to make a real go at this marriage. I thought me being here might give us some time to reflect, and appreciate each other more. I missed him so much, Michonne. I still do. I miss the Bob that I fell in love with, but that man isn’t there anymore. Do you remember how much fun he was?”

“Sasha, Bob has more than bad decision making fighting against him, he’s got a disease. And even though you may acknowledge that, and the strength it takes to battle it, Bob may not. And he might not ever. But I know he loves you. You know he loves you.”

“I know he does, and I love him. That’s why it’s so ridiculous. He’s showing me that love just isn’t enough right now.”

Raising from my chair, I move to stand beside my friend, my sister, and hug her. She needs it. Sagging under the burden of what’s happening in her marriage, Sasha’s distress is apparent. And I recognize it. God it’s so reminiscent of a state of being that I lived in for so long. Embodied the bitterness that saturated my emotions. 

Wiping away the tears from her face with my fingers, an idea springs to mind. “Ya know what we’re gonna do? Me and you are gonna do Comic Con on our own. No husbands, no kids, just me and you. And we’re gonna do this panel for the show, and eat, and party, and be our fabulous famous selves. Me and you.”

Shaking her head no, Sasha scoffs at my suggestion. “No! You should do this with your husband.”

“Rick and I have forever. I think we do. You need me right now, and I want to be there for you. Let me do that, Sasha.”

“Chonne…”

“Sash…” 

Laughing, her voice a muffled cloister against my shoulder where I hold her hugged tightly, Sasha squeaks out, “Well, me and you, and the other EPs and cast.”

“Yeah, they’re going too, but you know what I mean, smart ass.”

“Ok. Maybe you can do all the eating, they have me on a diet for filming. 

“Well, I’ll do enough eating for both of us.”

“Looks like you have been.” Sasha teases, giving the little puff of my tummy a tiny poke. It makes me giggle, but it also makes me wonder if she hasn’t figured me out yet. I don’t address the eating thing, nor the fact that yes, my stomach does seem to be bigger than it was a few months ago. I suppose she decides to allow my silence to slide, and she follows up with an affirmative, “Yeah. Let’s do it. Let’s do Comic Con together. A good ol’ girls trip!”

“Yes! We’re gonna have so much fun!”

“Yep but…hey,” she stops, rolling one of my locs in between her fingers, “what is this in your hair? Is this sawdust?” Inching backwards, out of my embrace Sasha cuts her eyes at me. “Tell me you and that man haven’t been screwing in his workshop, Michonne. His place of business?”

“Huh?” I mumble, rubbing my fingers over the length of my locs that drape across my shoulders. Bits of sawdust tumble across my t-shirt.

“For real, Michonne? Y’all nasty!”

“Listen, last night he was working late, so I stopped by to take him dinner.” Is all I say to her, the details remaining between my husband and I.

Knowingly Sasha doesn’t miss a beat though, and in that dry, droll way of hers rhetorically asks, “Were you dinner, Michonne? Was your freaky ass his dinner?”

Grinning, I don’t answer her, instead I close my eyes for a moment, recalling the way that Rick spread me out on his workshop desk and feasted on me instead of the roasted chicken dinner I brought him. Then turned me around, face down, and fucked me from behind, my ass still bearing the stinging mark of his palm’s slaps. 

“Just nasty! I can only imagine how scarred those poor children have to be watching the two of you all over each other all the damn time.” Sasha scoffs, slumping back into her chair, and out of my hug. 

“Not all the time. But, we did have to explain to them that we kiss and hug because we love each other very much. And of course smarty pants Carl has to add that he never saw me kiss Zeke before, and he says he loves me all the time.”

“Ouch! What did Rick say to that?”

“Nothing, but he is adamant that when Ezekiel gets back into the country that I talk to him. Rick and I haven’t settled on anything yet, but, I need to tell Ezekiel that we’re going to try and save our marriage and give him back that ring he sent me.”

“Wait, what? You didn’t tell me he sent you a ring.”

“Damn, I thought I told you.” Relaxing back in my own chair, I take a sip of my green smoothie with the chia seed and goji berries in it for an energy booster, and ginger for nausea. I’ve been so exhausted the last couple of weeks, with shooting for the show picking up steam, me spending most nights at the farm with Rick and the kids, and Rick and I screwing like rabbits all night. I’m worn out in a way that I haven’t been in years. Three to four years to be exact. But for the first time in a very long time, I’m loving everything about my life. Almost everything. “Well, after that first night with Rick, I called Ezekiel to kind of have it out with him, but come to find out he had to leave early to scout locations with his head EP, Carol. I leave him a message anyway, send him a text and an email. No response. Then about a week later, I get a call from his assistant Jerry who tells me that Ezekiel has a special surprise for me, and he needs me to confirm its receipt. Girl, this man had a two carat diamond engagement ring sent to my apartment, with this poem he wrote me. So I tried to call him again, and the only thing I got back was a text about how the diamond is a conflict free diamond, and he hopes that it’s a symbol of our way forward…conflict free.”

“No. No way. That man is corny as hell, Michonne.”

Grimacing, I inch out an agreement between gritted teeth, “He is. But he means well, and I really hate that again he’s gonna lose out to Rick. Like this poor guy-”

“Nope, Ezekiel knows exactly what he’s doing, and what he got himself into. He knew you were married. You and Rick have three kids, girl. Count ‘em!” she holds up three fingers, and points to each for emphasis. “And you still wear your ring around your neck. You weren’t fooling anyone but yourself. Ezekiel definitely knows what’s up. That’s what that ring is about. Proximity is a hell of a thing girl. He knows you and Rick being in the same place at the same is a recipe for disaster for him.” 

“Maybe. Doesn’t matter, I have the ring hidden in my apartment. I’m gonna give it back to him as soon as possible. Rick and I agreed that this time we are going to really make a go at this. Do everything right.” And I mean that. I’m committed to giving us everything I’ve got. This might be our last shot, and before I give up on us again I want to be sure I put as much into us as Rick did.

That night at the farm did more than just reconnect us sexually, which was even more amazing than I remembered, but it illuminated so many truths that I had turned a blind eye to. While trying to sleep during the storm that night, I allowed my nosiness to send me poking around Rick’s bedroom. Afraid to find some other woman’s things, signs of her presence in my husband’s space, I was hesitant at first. Cautious that looking for trouble might indeed turn up some trouble. None was found. Only indicators of a life that revolved around his family. Our family.

Inspecting each of the pictures on his dresser, and on the nightstand next to his bed, I noticed that my image was somewhere in most of them. My favorite one was a simple black and white photo of Rick’s hands flat to my overly swollen pregnant belly. A picture taken the morning the boys were born. No, maybe my favorite was the one where Rick’s seated on my hospital bed next to me, holding a newly born Judith, swaddled so snugly that only her tiny round face was exposed to the camera. And Rick, grinning so brightly, like he’d just won a million dollars, with tears in his eyes. And there I am, exhausted, locs a mess on my pillow, face rounded like a chipmunk, that pregnancy nose of mine wide across my face. Grinning. Joyful. Loved.

Looking around this space, this sanctuary that was all Rick with its almost bare walls, and tower of books stacked next to the bed, I could almost see him sitting up in the bed reading, his glasses riding low on his pointed nose. Dragging one hand rhythmically over my leg, my back, my thigh, whatever piece of me he could get his hands on while I read my own book, or sketched away on paper. Many nights were spent like this. Memories of us like this, content, flourished, played in front of my eyes like a familiar scene from a favorite movie. 

Once I dared to get in his bed, I could smell him all around me, the scent of his cologne and aftershave, his sweat and musk, heavy on his pillow, the sheets. Remembrance of my husband, how he has always made me feel, even the bad feelings, the sad ones, they all fluttered over me, raised my consciousness of his existence only steps away. Caused a slow burn for him, his touch, his kiss. Desire to live in those scenes again. Relive those moments with the man I love. A nostalgia for everything we have meant to each other, a recognition that the history of me, is the history of Rick. 

Breathing steady, steeling my nerves against the powerful wind and rain that beat against the house, made itself known in the sheet of water sprayed against the windows, I could almost hear my heart beating. Could definitely feel it against my chest. Restlessness pushing me to recall the press of his lips to mine earlier. Soft. Sweet. It made me skim my legs over the coolness of the sheets, tossing the blankets off me, their weight and warmth no match for the the smell of my husband lingering, kissing the air, pulling the ghost of him from the depth of my conjured memories. Driving my hands to drag over my body, my belly, my breasts, in remembrance of him. Of Rick. 

As the storm picked up, and added thunder and lightning to its majesty, the anxiety it produced in me grew, but it was no match for something else welling deep in my belly. Lust. God I wanted Rick. I needed him. It wasn’t just a physical urge. It was more. Rick’s mother’s words got to me. The presence of Lori on this land, close to my family…got to me. The strain of his leanly muscled body against his shirt...That wicked walk of Rick’s, nothing less than a graceful cowboy’s gait...got to me. His smile, that shadow of a beard ghosting across his handsome face. Those blue eyes. That tumble of chocolate curls that refused to be tamed away from his face. The sweeping memories floored me…they got to me. And just like I had so many times before, functioning on an innate auto pilot, I went to him. I had to be in his space. And god help me, it was one of the best choices I have made in a very long time.

Shaking me out of my memories, Sasha swats at my arm, calling my attention back to the present.

“Speaking of doing everything right, here comes Anthony.”

“Michonne, Sasha! Ladies, are you ready to get this show on the road?”

“Hey, Anthony-” Sasha and I both wave, taking in the good looks of the man approaching.

“Chonne!” I turn at the sound of my brother’s voice calling out to me from near where the trailers are setup. “Chonne!”

“Glenn, what’s up?”

“Rick and the kids just got clearance to enter the set. Should be up this way in a moment.”

Turning to swing my gaze in different directions to spot them, I wonder aloud, “Oh? Is everything ok?”

“I don’t know. Just wanted to let you know you have visitors before I take off for the day. You know I have that thing with Maggie tonight. Need to prepare.” Glenn offers, a nervous grin on his face. He’s been trying to get Maggie to free up some time for him for weeks, and I guess she finally agreed. Good for them. 

“Ok, well if you see them send them over.”

Pointing his index finger somewhere over my shoulder, he adds, “No need, here comes your brood now.”

As soon as Glenn says it, I can hear my kids chattering away. None of that running ahead and being wild when they are with their father, like they do to poor Glenn. No, Rick’s presence demands a certain obedience to his leadership. As such, the boys are closely flanking their father on each side, attentive and following his lead, and as usual, Judith rests contentedly in her father’s arms. And then there’s Rick, the most handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Sunglasses shield those baby blues from the sun’s rays, and with his hair growing a little long, and swept back from his face in loose curls, he looks every bit the dashing actor that Anthony does. Sasha is right I suddenly realize; they could be twins. Donning a black t-shirt, and dark blue washed jeans, the strides of his bowed legs are long and purposeful. A smile, centered by the dark brush of the very same beard that was covered in my juices this morning, graces his lips as his gaze lands on me.

Butterflies flap their beautiful wings in my belly, causing a stirring, a flutter that feels uncontainable and causes me to rise from my chair in anticipation of his arrival. 

“Hi!” I call to my family. A smile for my children. Hugs from tiny arms, kisses from lips that are sticky, accompanied by the welcoming scent of graham crackers that always seems to follow them. Instantly, I’m drawn in by his firm grasp around my waist, as Rick pulls me into his form, and kisses me soundly. Slowly. His lips gently commanding mine to open just enough to accept a quick flutter of his tongue into my mouth. Just enough to cause the flutter to increase in intensity into a wild thumping that sends my hand grazing the planes of his chest, gripping at his t-shirt to prevent me from falling.

I suppose this is old hat for the kids now. Judith doesn’t even bat an eyelash at the display of affection, and the boys are already going through the base camp tent as their uncle Glenn tries to stop them from touching everything. 

On a whispery note, one so flush with lust it’s almost a moan, I utter my husband’s name as though I wasn’t just with him this morning. “Rick.”

Grinning in recognition of the affect he has over me, Rick nods in greeting and removes his sunglasses, handing them to Judith who promptly dons them over her own eyes. “Chonne.” 

“Hi, Rick! Nice to see you again.” Sasha offers, seemingly hesitating a moment to allow our kiss and greeting to commence. Reaching out, she gives him a quick hug, and it warms my heart to see my husband and my friend greet each other like old times. 

“It’s always good to see you, Sasha. How have you been?”

“I’ve been better, but, I’m going to be fine.”

Looking to me for some direction on what Sasha’s cryptic response could be alluding to, Rick doesn’t seem to know what to say. 

In the brief silence that ensues, Anthony, who was standing behind Sasha, steps forward, offering his hand to Rick, and introduces himself in the fake southern accent that supplanted his English one since we began shooting. “Hello there, I’m Anthony.” 

Accepting his hand, Rick gives him a firm shake. “Rick.”

“Anthony, this is my husband.” I clarify the introduction, again awash with a glow at that fact. This is my husband.

“Pleasure to meet you, man. You have one beautiful and talented wife. She’s amazing. You’re a lucky man.” Anthony nods my way, complimenting me. 

“Thank you. I agree.” Rick responds, though I catch a slight tick in his jaw, and a tightening of his palm as it reclaims its spot at my waist, at Anthony calling me beautiful. 

“Daddy, he looks like you.” Andre comments, running back over to where we are. Swinging his eyes between Rick in his jeans, t-shirt and boots, and then back to Anthony in his jeans, t-shirt, and boots. “Like brothers like me and Carl!”

“What I tell you, Michonne?” Sasha leans over and whispers in my ear, and for the first time I have to agree. Seeing them both standing next to each other it’s much easier to recognize the resemblance. More than just the clothes, it’s also the stance, with Anthony holding a posture similar to the way that Rick kind of hangs his weight back on his left leg. The assessing squint in their blue eyes as they try to find the likeness in the other that now everyone seems to be noticing. Even Glenn stands off to the side and gives them both a once over, then glances my way, mouthing the words ‘you didn’t’. To which I can only shrug. I suppose I did.

“Dre’s right, Dad. Is this your brother? Like Uncle Jeff?” Carl wonders aloud, looking up from his iPad momentarily to confirm Andre’s assessment. 

Momentarily sizing Anthony up, probably looking for the truth in everyone’s assertion, Rick narrows his eyes at Anthony. Coming to a decision, he shakes his head. “Nah, we don’t look alike. We’re not brothers.” Rick dismisses the odd moment, sucking his teeth in finality. “Anyway, Chonne, can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Sure. Wanna go to my trailer?”

“Ok. Glenn, do you mind keeping an eye on the kids for a second. Won’t be long. Just need to discuss something with Chonne real quick.”

“Ah, sure. I have to leave though in about thirty minutes for sure. I’ve got a date with Maggie tonight. I can’t be late.”

“You won’t. I need only about fifteen minutes of my wife’s time. Shouldn’t take too long.” Handing Judith over to Glenn, Rick turns to me and threads his fingers with mine, then turns us away from the tent. “Which way?”

Before we take off, I can faintly hear Anthony’s voice from behind me. “I don’t think we look alike at all.”

I lead us over to where the trailers are lined up on the outskirts of base camp, mine one of the largest and most luxurious, at the very end of the row. Once inside, I take note that Rick makes quick work of closing and locking the door behind us. 

Quirking my eyebrow at this, I turn away and set my papers and laptop on the makeup vanity, then turn back to face him, as I settle in a lean with my hip against the counter. “What’s up?”

Resting his hands at his hips, Rick answers, “Ya know our parents Saturday morning for Florida, to take the kids to Disney.”

“Yeah, I didn’t forget. I got some extra sunscreen and beach things for the kids.”

“Well Judith has a little cough, wanna get it checked out before they leave. Just to make sure she’s ok. You know her allergies get worse in the summer.”

“I know. Should have gotten her checked out with her doctor before we left LA. But, yeah should probably do that now. Make sure she’s ok before they leave for two weeks.”

“I’m going to take her to that new pediatrician at your parents’ practice. Dr. Siddiq. Your dad said he’s a good doctor.”

Somewhat surprised by Rick’s comment, I tilt my head in question. “You spoke to my dad?”

“Yeah, I talk to him all the time. He’s the one who suggested we take the day and bring Judith in.”

“Take the day? The whole day?”

“You know we are going to have to promise her a family fun day to get her in the doctor’s office. She hates the doctor. Always thinks she’s gonna get a shot when we go. You know this.” Rick answers, confidently advancing closer. Cockiness apparent in his swagger, he doesn’t stop until he has me caged, with his arms on either side of the counter behind me. For a moment the dazzling blue of his eyes skims my face, as a slow mischievous grin grows on his lips. 

This man in my space is everything, and it’s short circuiting my brain. Mint, jasmine, jasmine and musk perfume his skin, enticing me with their aroma, enveloping my senses with everything Rick. I recognize that look in his eyes. The brief kiss of his tongue to his bottom lip, drawing my attention to the plush pinkness found there and introduction to the rosy flush creeping up his neck from his chest, to his face. My core comes alive, remembering with clarity what the closeness of our bodies can mean. It’s the same fire and heat that has stolen every single moment of my free time for the last two months. Kept me breathless and weak for him. Hungry for my husband’s touch. 

As though I might try to save myself from being devoured by the lascivious smirk of my husband’s perfect lips, a preamble to certain seduction, I reach for the pencil that is tucked over my ear, using it to signal that I need to get back to work. I nudge Rick softly in the chest with the eraser, gently pushing him away. “You want me to just stop working on my show today and run off with you and the kids? For me to stop building my little post-apocalyptic civilization?”

Rick stands firm. Tall. His broad chest unmoved by my little maneuver. Gently nabbing the pencil from where I have it pressed to the center of his chest, Rick flicks it across the room. “Yeah. That’s exactly what I want you to do, Chonne.” Immediately he’s on me, lowering his lips to my neck, gracing the sensitive skin with a series of kisses, then proceeding to suck the skin between his lips and teeth. Rolling my head backwards, I bare my throat to him, needy for more of what he’s giving, retreating from the mere thought that I might resist. 

Pushing himself closer to me, his form molded tightly against my own, I can feel the weighty heft of his thick erection against stomach. I groan at the sensation as my body loosens, grows slack with the pleasure of my husband overwhelming me with his presence. Dipping his face lower, burrowing his tongue and lips into my cleavage, Rick grabs two handfuls of my ass, kneading the flesh in his palms. Unexpectedly I feel my feet leave the ground, as Rick hoists me up, and sets me on the counter. A delighted gasp leaves my lips, and for a moment he pulls back, ceasing his ministrations. 

“Take your shirt off.”

Taken aback at his naughty command, I’m breathless, caught off guard, but nonetheless aroused by his suggestion. “Rick? I’m…I’m at work.” 

With an absolutely feral focus in the growing darkness of his blue eyes, Rick doesn’t care for my weak argument. Dismissing it he offers a final command, his voice little more than a bass heavy utterance, “You can do it, or I will.” Roughly, he’s grazing his hand over the thin silk of the wine colored camisole, over my breasts, then down to the delicate edge of the hem. His fingers twist the fine material between his calloused fingers. “I might not be as gentle with this nice little top as you are. Either way, I want it off you. Now.” On his final word, he inches his fingers into the waistband of my jeans, then pulls me towards to him, the crotch of my jeans cosseted against his tight abs.

The gruff demand raises my temperature, heats my core to where I can positively feel the wetness saturating my panties. Rick’s commanding handling of me has always been a gift and a curse. A gift in that he is the only man who can boss me. Who can order and control my body, his dominance a certain pathway to pleasure. A curse for the same reason. Ezekiel has never been able to rule over my body, and perhaps that is why I never fully relinquished my hold on my husband. Succumbed to the idea of a lifetime with Ezekiel, and his tepid, gentle lovemaking. While I can appreciate, and do enjoy the merits of a gentler kind of lovemaking, there is absolutely no comparison to the naughty methods my husband employs to make me his own little freak. 

How foolish I was to ever believe that another man could give me what Rick does. Could make me feel like he does. This man, my husband, my best friend and lover has taught me everything about sex, about love, about exploring parts of myself that some could never dig deep enough to unlock. Why did I ever believe that I could live without this man and his superb mastery of my body? My soul.

Without a second thought, I instantly lift the offending garment from my feverish skin, the thin slip of silk a minor hindrance, tossed aside carelessly. My skin, my breasts are sensitive to the immediate scratch of his beard, the commanding roll of his wet tongue as he shoves my bra cups down with his lips and teeth. Lapping at my nipples, Rick uses the flat of his tongue to lick a wet path around my darkened flesh, now slippery and damp from his saliva. 

Tingling, a burst of pleasure ripples through me. My fingers hold tightly to him, the dark strands of his curly hair gripped in my hands. It’s the only thing that keeps me grounded, from absolutely combusting, turning to inflamed ash as he unbuckles my pants and shoves them to the floor. Cool air blesses the folds of my puffy sex, gifting me with a brief reprieve from the fire Rick is stoking.

Standing between my widespread thighs, one hand now massaging the back of my neck, the other grazing down over my lightly swollen belly, Rick gives my clit a few wet slaps with the palm of his hand. Against my throat, his deep voice is a rumble, a gritty tease. “All morning I’ve been thinking of you. Of how I left my cum all over your fat pussy lips last night.”

“Ugh…uh…” 

“I love your pussy, Chonne. Like a chocolate kiss on the outside. Wet and pink on the inside.” Slipping the skin on my throat and collarbone between the edge of his teeth, Rick’s groaning softly into my flesh. Slapping at my pussy a few more times, he asks, moving back to my lips, he’s breathing the words, “Have you been thinking of me today, Chonne? Is that why this pussy is so wet, babe? Hm? Were you remembering how I fucked you last night, then came all over this beautiful, smooth skin? That make you wet, babe?” My breast is in his other hand, his large palm gripping the roundness in a firm massage.

Nodding, my lips slightly separated to swallow every word my husband whispers against them, I’m completely pliant in his hands. His command of my pleasure heightens my anticipation of what comes next. 

Sliding his middle finger between my folds, the silk of my essence is sticky evidence of my arousal, of how his words, his touch unhinges every bit of resistance I may have had. Any inch of decorum that would prevent me from allowing my husband to fuck me in my work trailer. The possibility of my colleagues hearing me, completely foreign to my sex obsessed brain.

Moving his grip from my breast to my chin, Rick’s long index fingers play over my lips. “What about when I fucked your mouth this morning? Hm? Let you swallow my cum. You been thinking about that, Chonne? You like when I fuck your mouth. Let you wrap your lips around my dick?”

“Yes, Rick…oh god…” I answer, his words painting a vivid picture of me on my back this morning, Rick gripping the headboard, hovering over my face, as I sucked his cock. 

“My dick has been hard as I’ve been thinking of you all morning, babe. Your thighs wet with my cum. The scent of me all over my wife.”

“Ahh…”

“You want me to fuck you right now?”

“Yes…”

“Say it then. Tell me what you want, Chonne.”

“I want you to- to… mmmmmm…”

“To what?” Rick asks, torturing me, knowing that I can hardly form the words as his hand has picked up speed. His fingers sliding quickly against my sticky clit, two of his fingers now curled inside of my canal, jamming against my spot. 

“Mmmm…” is all I have. A humming buzz sounding off in my head, between my ears. Grinding downward onto his fast moving hand, I’m greedily seeking an orgasm. Ready to blast off, to saturate my husband’s hand with cum, when he suddenly stops. The peak I was slowly ascending to, now leveling off as he removes his hand. “Rick? What?”

“You have to tell me. Say it, Chonne.” Quirking an eyebrow, Rick begins making slow work of his own jeans, until he has freed his cock. Fisting himself, his hand pumping the thick meaty flesh, his focus is still on me. Relentlessly on me with each measured stroke of his long cock that ends with a swipe of his thumb across the weeping hole. 

Fascinated, hypnotized by the way my husband handles himself, I’m growing antsy with each pull. Every second I’m not filled with every inch of him, the unsatisfied hum is an irritancy to my very being. Rick loves to play these games. To tease me. But he’s taken me so high already, I can’t bear another moment of the tease. And so I relent. I say the words that will unleash him, untether him from his control.

“Rick… I need- I need you to fuck me, Rick… Now.”

“Yeah. I know.”

With a gentle caress of my breasts, Rick rolls my nipples between the thumb and index finger of his left hand. A pinch. A tiny bit of pain, just enough, causes me to arch into him, lift my chest in offering as he easily guides me to lay back on the counter. Lifting my legs, bending them at the knee, he widens my thighs until they are almost flat to the counter. Skimming his fingers over the thickness of my inner thighs, he soothes me with his touch, easing my restless, anticipatory squirming. 

As has become commonplace for us, he reminds me, “You have to be quiet, Chonne. You don’t want anyone to hear you getting fucked do you?”

Shaking my head, I suck my lips into my mouth as though that would prevent the sounds that we both know are sure to come. 

Rick grazes his thumb over my clit, a rhythm that nearly kills me, the pressure growing in intensity with each pass until the blunt head of his cock breaches me. Gasping at the pleasurable stretch, I cannot prevent the throaty moan of satisfaction that rises from my throat. Each thrust of his hips, at first shallow, then to the hilt, imbedding his cock deeper inside of me, elicits a groan, a wail even louder than the last. I know I should be quiet. Rick knows I should be quiet. And even as he punishes me relentlessly with every pound of his cock, his own sounds muffled by how he’s trapped his bottom lip by his teeth, I can’t seem to allow myself to be quiet. The pleasure is too good. The subtle hint of pain when he pushes every inch of himself into me, then gives me those quick bangs of his pelvis against mine, doesn’t help, and just as I throw my head back, Rick places his palm over my mouth. Muffling my cries.

Leaning down, angling further into me, Rick takes hold of my thigh and digs his fingers into the flesh, lifting it impossibly higher to rest on his shoulder. 

“You feel so fucking good, Chonne. I love this pussy, babe!” Rick’s voice rumbles against my cheek, his words ending on a biting suck of my lips as the piston of his hips wanes to a dramatically paced rhythm. The slowest in and out, his cock stroking my canal into a crescendoing frenzy of gratification.

Threading my fingers through the silk of his hair, I’m gluttonous in my need to maintain my connection to Rick, to maintain the heady balance of intensity dancing right on the edge of climax. “Mmmmmm… mmm!” I’m panting, moans escaping under the sound deadening hold of Rick’s palm over my mouth, a firm grip of my ass in the other, and the crush of his heavy body thrusting and grinding on top of me. Desire pools in my protruding bundle of nerves compressed against the base of his cock, swollen and sensitive from the concentrated thrusts of his dick. Rick effortlessly pumps himself through the puffy lips at the apex of my womanhood, enlivening me with the most exquisite bursts of intense pleasure. 

Savoring the thrill of my orgasm, riding the wave with me, Rick burrows his lips into my neck, a subtle bite to my skin. His visceral grunts and moans are urgent, a waving white flag announcing his body’s surrender to the pleasure found in the depths of me. “Ugh, Chonne, uhhh…Ah fuck! Fuck! Fuuuu…”

Jets of his cum stream into my womb, the viscous substance mixing with my own sticky orgasmic essence, making a mess of the juncture where we are connected. Rick’s body is stiff, massive, crushing me under the bright glare of the illuminated bulbs above the mirror, pinning me to the hard vanity countertop. 

We remain still for so long, our bodies twisted and intertwined, thighs aching from their widened stretch, that I begin to wonder from the syncopated rhythm of his chest’s in and out against my breasts, if he isn’t in fact asleep. 

Dragging my fingers across his scalp, the curls coiling silkily between them, I’m attempting to elicit a sign of life from my husband. “Rick?”

“Hm?”

“Just making sure you’re not sleep.”

“Uh huh.”

“We need to get up.”

“Uh huh.”

“I hope no one heard us.”

“Heard you.”

“Whatever.”

Unmoving, Rick remains where he is as though I didn’t just remind him that we need to make a move.

“Baby, you’re heavy.”

“Uh huh. Sorry.” He slurs, finally moving his body sluggishly, releasing the pressure of him on top of me. He doesn’t make a move for his clothes, or mine for that matter. He just stands there, looking at me. Staring. His hair in utter disarray. The curve of his pink lips magnified from the kissing and sucking and biting. I love when he does this, when I have his full attention. When he lays those blues on me, and makes me feel as though I’m the only thing, the only person that matters to him. The center of his world. 

It’s what I see right now in the focused glide of his fixed stare, beginning at my face then traveling down. Down further still, until I grow antsy, self-conscious at what he must see under the unforgiving glare of the vanity mirror’s lights. It’s what they are for after all. To point out flaws that must be corrected. Assist in the application of makeup or some other implement to address an imperfection. I want to squirm, but find that I cannot. Rick’s hold on my waist is firm, steadying, keeps me affixed right where he wants me. 

What must he think of what he sees? The thick lines that traverse my dark skin, ridged, and veiny, marring my skin. We’ve been together plenty since our reunion two months ago, but never under the harsh focus of such luminosity. What must Rick think of how my body has aged, spread, grown fatter, wider, thicker? I’m afraid to ask. Afraid to know too much of what’s swimming behind those beautiful eyes, almost unblinking in the intensity of their assessment. Is he comparing me to the unmarked, willowy, lithe body of his previous lover? To the porcelain cast of her early peach colored skin? Does he miss that? Does he still want that?

Just as I’m about to sit up, attempt an escape, some way to conceal the artifacts of what my life’s experiences have left behind on my body, Rick’s strong hands begin to caress, massage away the tension in my form. Grasping the flesh that rounds my wide hips. Smoothing and gripping the softness that lives on my inner thighs. And just as I’m about to question him, he prostrates himself, placing his lips to my stomach and whispers against my skin, glistening with the shared mix of our sweat. Blue eyes never leave my own. Even as long sandy colored eyelashes flutter over them, my husband maintains our connection. “I love you, Michonne.” His declaration is not foreign to me. But the earnestness in the hushed words, spoken with the reverence of a vow, a prayer of supplication and devotion into my skin, carries with it so much levity. Clarity. 

“I love you, Rick.”

“Maybe take a pregnancy test while we’re at your parents’ office?”

Gulping, I almost don’t answer him. I almost didn’t hear him, these last few words were uttered so delicately, a tone so hushed that they were almost carried away by the hum of the air conditioner. I’ve wanted to bring this up to Rick for the last two weeks. I missed my period. We’ve been here before, at this crossroads where new life begins. We’ve done nothing to prevent it, and everything to encourage it. So why am I so scared to speak into existence the very thing that we both know we have done?

Because I know my husband. He will force the finality of a choice. No more of this marriage in limbo. Together but not. A conclusion that dispatches once and for all with any question of where we both want to be, and with whom. I’ve only heard the name Lori once in the last two months, and that was when he let me know that he had agreed to meet her one last time to retrieve some of his things from her home. The admission that he had left pieces of himself with her stung. Hurt more than I expected. Reminded me how tenuous my rekindled relationship with my husband truly was. The box he retrieved held a few tools, his iPad, some pants and a few shirts. All signs that he had intended to occupy her space again. He had done so more than once. Disrobed with her. Left his clothes, and his coveted tools behind with her, safely in her care.

I had no right to the anger and jealousy that clouded my vision when I saw that box, shoved into a corner in his bedroom upon his return. Discarded as though those things meant nothing. They meant everything. They along with the expensive ring and unanswered texts from Ezekiel, were the symbols of the unfinished edges of our existence apart that threatened to unravel our attempts to bind our lives back together now. 

But this? This baby that Rick has placed in my womb. That grows stronger everyday? This is an inevitability that will force Rick and I to make plain whatever it is that’s going to happen from here. Insecurity of what it might mean for Rick to choose me, or me to choose him, what the consequence of those choices might mean, wasn’t going to stop us this time. I will not hurt my husband again by not sealing my fate with his. This last chance for us meant more than me choosing him to take my virginity. Him choosing to follow me to LA. Him choosing to save his family, or me choosing to save myself from his one sided sacrifice. This was our last chance to get the Rick and Michonne story right. For me, the baby we made together was proof that we had decided on a way forward together.

Nodding my head a few times, a subtle agreement to acknowledge the choices we have made, I closed my eyes briefly and accepted the piece that quieting my indecision is giving me. “Yeah. We should do that.” I confirm, smiling at my husband, who lays his bearded cheek on my belly as I continue to soothe him, rub my fingers over his head and lull him into the certainty of what my yes actually means. We are doing this. We are in this together. I choose him. Again.


End file.
